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MASTERPIECES  OF 

FRENCH    FICTION 

Crowne&  bi^ 

The  Academic  Francaise 
Iknown  as 

"THE    IMMORTALS" 


^Kltc^yfj  oxiA^  c^ 


Paul  Bourget. 

[From  the  Original  Etching  b})  Robert  Kastor. 


COSMOPOLIS 

BY 

PAUL   BOURGET 


Crowned   by    the    French    Academy 


With  a  Preface  by  JULES  LEMAITRE. 
of  the    French  Academy,   and    Illustrations 

by  N.BRIGANTI  and  EDWARD  KING 


NEW    YORK 

Current  Literature  Publishing  Company 


1908 


Copyright,    1905 

BY 

ROBERT    ARNOT 


PAUL  BOURGET 


CD 


ORN  in  Amiens,  September  2,  1852, 
Paul  Bourget  was  a  pupil  at  the  Ly- 
cee  Louis  le  Grand,  and  then  followed 
a  course  at  the  Ecole  des  Hautes 
Etudes,  intending  to  devote  himself 
to  Greek  philology.  He,  however, 
soon  gave  up  linguistics  for  poetry, 
literary  criticism,  and  fiction.  When 
yet  a  very  young  man,  he  became  a  contributor  to  vari- 
ous journals  and  reviews,  among  others  to  the  Revue 
des  deux  Moudes,  La  Renaissance,  Le  Parlement,  La 
Nouvellc  Revue,  etc.  He  has  since  given  himself  up 
almost  exclusively  to  novels  and  fiction,  but  it  is  neces- 
sary to  mention  here  that  he  also  wrote  poetry.  His 
poetical  works  comprise :  Poesies  (18^2-18^6),  La  Vie 
Inquiete  (1875),  Edel  (1878),  and  Les  Aveux  (1882). 

With  riper  mind  and  to  far  better  advantage,  he  ap- 
peared a  few  years  later  in  literary  essays  on  the  writers 
who  had  most  influenced  his  own  development — the 
philosophers  Renan,  Taine,  and  Amiel,  the  poets  Bau- 
delaire and  Lecontc  de  Lisle;  the  dramatist  Dumas  fils, 
and  the  novelists  Turgenieff,  the  Goncourts,  and  Stend- 
hal. Brunetiere  says  of  Bourget  that  ''no  one  knows 
more,  has  read  more,  read  better,  or  meditated  more 

[vl 


PREFACE 

profoundly  upon  what  he  has  read,  or  assimilated  it 
more  completely."  So  much  "reading"  and  so  much 
"meditation,"  even  when  accompanied  by  strong  as- 
similative powers,  are  not,  perhaps,  the  most  desirable 
and  necessary  tendencies  in  a  writer  of  verse  or  of 
fiction.  To  the  philosophic  critic,  however,  they  must 
evidently  be  invaluable ;  and  thus  it  is  that  in  a  certain 
self-allotted  domain  of  literary  appreciation  allied  to 
semi -scientific  thought,  Bourget  stands  to-day  without  a 
rival.  His  Essais  de  Psychologie  Contemporaine  (1883), 
Nouveaux  Essais  (1885),  and  Etudes  et  Portraits  (1888) 
are  certainly  not  the  work  of  a  week,  but  rather  the  out- 
come of  years  of  self-culture  and  of  protracted  deter- 
mined endeavor  upon  the  sternest  lines.  In  fact,  for  a 
long  time,  Bourget  rose  at  3  a.m.  and  elaborated  anx- 
iously study  after  study,  and  sketch  after  sketch,  well 
satisfied  when  he  sometimes  noticed  his  articles  in  the 
theatrical  jeuilleton  of  the  Globe  and  the  Parlement, 
until  he  finally  contributed  to  the  great  Debats  itself. 
A  period  of  long,  hard,  and  painful  probation  must  al- 
ways be  laid  down,  so  to  speak,  as  the  foundation  of 
subsequent  literary  fame.  But  France,  fortunately  for 
Bourget,  is  not  one  of  those  places  where  the  foundation 
is  likely  to  be  laid  in  vain,  or  the  period  of  probation  to 
endure  for  ever  and  ever. 

In  fiction,  Bourget  carries  realistic  observation  be- 
yond the  externals  (which  fixed  the  attention  of  Zola 
and  Maupassant)  to  states  of  the  mind:  he  unites  the 
method  of  Stendhal  to  that  of  Balzac.  He  is  always 
interesting  and  amusing.  He  takes  himself  seriously 
and  persi.sts  in  regarding  the  art  of  writing  fiction  as  a 


PREFACE 

science.  He  has  wit,  humor,  charm,  and  Hghtness  of 
touch,  and  ardently  strives  after  philosophy  and  intel- 
lectuality— quahties  that  are  rarely  found  in  fiction. 
It  may  well  be  said  of  M.  Bourget  that  he  is  innocent 
of  the  creation  of  a  single  stupid  character.  The  men 
and  women  we  read  of  in  Bourget's  novels  are  so  intel- 
lectual that  their  wills  never  interfere  with  their 
hearts. 

The  list  of  his  novels  and  romances  is  a  long  one, 
considering  the  fact  that  his  first  novel,  VIrreparable, 
appeared  as  late  as  1884.  It  was  followed  by  Cnielle 
Enigme  (1885);  Un  Crime  d* Amour  (1886);  Andre 
Cornells  and  Mensonges  (1887);  Le  Disciple  (1889); 
La  Terre  promise;  Cosmo  polls  (1892),  crowned  by  the 
Academy;  Drames  de  Famille  (i8gg);  M onique  (igo2)', 
his  romances  are  Une  Idylle  Iragique  (1896);  La  Duch- 
esse  Bleue  (1898);  Le  Fantome  (1901);  and  UEtape 
(1902). 

Le  Disciple  and  Cosmopolis  are  certainly  notable 
books.  The  latter  marks  the  cardinal  point  in  Bour- 
get's fiction.  Up  to  that  time  he  had  seen  environment 
more  than  characters;  here  the  dominant  interest  is 
psychic,  and,  from  this  point  on,  his  characters  become 
more  and  more  like  Stendhal's,  "different  from  normal 
clay."  Cosmopolis  is  perfectly  charming.  Bourget  is, 
indeed,  the  past-master  of  "psychological"  fiction. 

To  sum  up:  Bourget  is  in  the  realm  of  fiction  what 
Frederic  Amiel  is  in  the  realm  of  thinkers  and  phi- 
losophers— a  subtle,  ingenious,  highly  gifted  student  of 
his  time.  With  a  wonderful  dexterity  of  pen,  a  very 
acute,  almost  womanly  intuition,  and  a  rare  diffusion 

[  vii  ] 


PREFACE 

of  grace  about  all  his  writings,  it  is  probable  that  Bour- 
get  will  remain  less  known  as  a  critic  than  as  a  roman- 
cer. Though  he  neither  feels  like  Loti  nor  sees  like 
Maupassant — he  reflects. 


f  vii-i  I 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Author's  Preface i 

CHAPTER  I 
A  Dilettante  and  a  Believer 5 

CHAPTER  II 
The  Beginning  of  a  Drama 34 

CHAPTER  III 

BOLESLAS    GORKA 66 

CHAPTER  IV 
Approaching  Danger pj 

CHAPTER  V 
Countess  Steno i^^ 

CHAPTER  VI 
The  Inconsistency  of  an  Old  Chouan i68 

CHAPTER  VII 
A  Little  Relative  of  Iago 228 

CHAPTER  VIII 
On  the  Ground 262 

CHAPTER  IX 
Lucid  Alba 207 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  X 

PAGE 

Common  Misery 324 

CHAPTER  XI 
The  Lake  di  Porto 345 

CHAPTER  XII 
Epilogue 367 


[^1 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PACING    PAGE 


Paul  Bourget  (portrait) FrorUispiece 

76 
He  examined  again  the  note ' 

276 


Boleslas  confesses! 


AUTHOR'S    INTRODUCTION 

SEND  you,  my  dear  Primoli,  from 
beyond  the  Alps,  the  romance  of 
international  life,  begun  in  Italy  al- 
most under  your  eyes,  to  which  I 
have  given  for  a  frame  that  ancient 
and  noble  Rome  of  which  you  are 
so  ardent  an  admirer. 
To  be  sure,  the  drama  of  passion 
which  this  book  depicts  has  no  particularly  Roman 
features,  and  nothing  was  farther  from  my  thoughts 
than  to  trace  a  picture  of  the  society  so  local,  so  tra- 
ditional, which  exists  between  the  Quirinal  and  the 
Vatican.  The  drama  is  not  even  Italian,  for  the  scene 
might  have  been  laid,  with  as  much  truth,  at  Venice, 
Florence,  Nice,  St.  Moritz,  even  Paris  or  London,  the 
various  cities  which  are  like  quarters  scattered  over 
Europe  of  the  fluctuating  Cosmopolis,  christened  by 
Beyle:  Vengo  adesso  da  Cosmopoli.  It  is  the  contrast 
between  the  rather  incoherent  ways  of  the  rovers  of 
high  life  and  the  character  of  perennity  impressed 
everywhere  in  the  great  city  of  the  Caesars  and  of  the 
Popes  which  has  caused  me  to  choose  the  spot  where 
even  the  corners  speak  of  a  secular  past,  there  to  evoke 
some  representatives  of  the  most  modern,  as  well  as 
the  most  arbitrary  and  the  most  momentary,  life.  You, 
I  [1] 


INTRODUCTION 

who  know  better  than  any  one  the  motley  world  of 
cosmopoHtes,  understand  why  I  have  confined  myself 
to  painting  here  only  a  fragment  of  it.  That  world, 
indeed,  does  not  exist,  it  can  have  neither  defined  cus- 
toms nor  a  general  character.  It  is  composed  of  ex- 
ceptions and  of  singularities.  We  are  so  naturally 
creatures  of  custom,  our  continual  mobility  has  such  a 
need  of  gravitating  around  one  fixed  axis,  that  motives 
of  a  personal  order  alone  can  determine  us  upon  an 
habitual  and  voluntary  exile  from  our  native  land.  It 
is  so,  now  in  the  case  of  an  artist,  a  person  seeking  for 
instruction  and  change;  now  in  the  case  of  a  business 
man  who  desires  to  escape  the  consequences  of  some 
scandalous  error;  now  in  the  case  of  a  man  of  pleasure 
in  search  of  new  adventures;  in  the  case  of  another, 
who  cherishes  prejudices  from  birth,  it  is  the  longing 
to  find  the  "happy  mean;"  in  the  case  of  another,  flight 
from  distasteful  memories.  The  life  of  the  cosmopoHte 
can  conceal  all  beneath  the  vulgarity  of  its  whims,  from 
snobbery  in  quest  of  higher  connections  to  swindling 
in  quest  of  easier  prey,  submitting  to  the  brilliant  friv- 
olities of  the  sport,  the  sombre  intrigues  of  policy,  or 
the  sadness  of  a  life  which  has  been  a  failure. 

Such  a  variety  of  causes  renders  at  once  very  attrac- 
tive and  almost  impracticable  the  task  of  the  author 
who  takes  as  a  model  that  ever-changing  society  so  like 
unto  itself  in  the  exterior  rites  and  fashions,  so  really, 
so  intimately  complex  and  composite  in  its  fundamental 
elements.  The  writer  is  compelled  to  take  from  it  a 
series  of  leading  facts,  as  I  have  done,  essaying  to  deduce 
a  law  which  governs  them.     That  law,  in  the  present 

[2l 


[NTKODUCTION 

instance,  is  the  permanence  of  race.  Contradictory 
as  may  appear  this  result,  the  more  one  studies  the  cos- 
mopoHtes,  the  more  one  ascertains  that  the  most  ir- 
reducible idea  within  them  is  that  special  strength  of 
heredity  which  slumbers  beneath  the  monotonous 
uniform  of  superficial  relations,  ready  to  reawaken 
as  soon  as  love  stirs  the  depths  of  the  temperament. 
But  there  again  a  difficulty,  almost  insurmountable,  is 
met  with.  Obliged  to  concentrate  his  action  to  a  lim- 
ited number  of  personages,  the  novelist  can  not  pretend 
to  incarnate  in  them  the  confused  whole  of  characters 
which  the  vague  word  race  sums  up.  Again,  taking 
this  book  as  an  example,  you  and  I,  my  dear  Primoli, 
know  a  number  of  Venetians  and  of  English  women, 
of  Poles  and  of  Romans,  of  Americans  and  of  French 
who  have  nothing  in  common  with  Madame  Steno, 
Maud  and  Boleslas  Gorka,  Prince  d'Ardea,  Marquis 
Cibo,  Lincoln  Maitland,  his  brother-in-law,  and  the 
Marquis  de  Montfanon,  while  Justus  Hafner  only  rep- 
resents one  phase  out  of  twenty  of  the  European  ad- 
venturer, of  whom  one  knows  neither  his  religion,  his 
family,  his  education,  his  point  of  setting  out,  nor  his 
point  of  arriving,  for  he  has  been  through  various  ways 
and  means.  My  ambition  would  be  satisfied  were  I 
to  succeed  in  creating  here  a  group  of  individuals  not 
representative  of  the  entire  race  to  which  they  belong, 
but  only  as  possibly  existing  in  that  race — or  those 
races.  For  several  of  them,  Justus  Hafner  and  his 
daughter  Fanny,  Alba  Steno,  Florent  Chapron,  Lydia 
Maitland,  have  mixed  blood  in  their  veins.  May  these 
personages  interest  you,  my  dear  friend,  and  become 

[3] 


INTRODUCTION 

to  you  as  real  as  they  have  been  to  me  for  some  time, 
and  may  you  receive  them  in  your  palace  of  Tor  di 
Nona  as  faithful  messengers  of  the  grateful  affection 
felt  for  you  by  your  companion  of  last  winter. 

Paul  Bourget. 

Paris,  November  i6,  1892. 


[4j 


COSMOPOLIS 


CHAPTER  I 


A  DILETTANTE  AND  A  BELIEVER 

I'LTHOUGH  the  narrow  stall,  flooded 
with  heaped-up  books  and  papers, 
left  the  visitor  just  room  enough  to 
stir,  and  although  that  visitor  was  one 
of  his  regular  customers,  the  old  book- 
seller did  not  deign  to  move  from  the 
stool  upon  which  he  was  seated,  while 
writing  on  an  unsteady  desk.  His 
odd  head,  with  its  long,  white  hair,  peeping  from  be- 
neath a  once  black  felt  hat  with  a  broad  brim,  was 
hardly  raised  at  the  sound  of  the  opening  and  shutting 
of  the  door.  The  newcomer  saw  an  emaciated,  shriv- 
eled face,  in  which,  from  behind  spectacles,  two  brown 
eyes  twinkled  slyly.  Then  the  hat  again  shaded  the 
paper,  which  the  knotty  fingers,  with  their  dirty  nails, 
covered  with  uneven  lines  traced  in  a  handwriting  be- 
longing to  another  age,  and  from  the  thin,  tall  form, 
enveloped  in  a  greenish,  worn-out  coat,  came  a  faint 
voice,  the  voice  of  a  man  afflicted  with  chronic  laryn- 
gitis, uttering  as  an  apology,  with  a  strong  Italian  ac- 
cent, this  phrase  in  Frenrh: 

[5] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"One  moment,  Marquis,  the  muse  will  not  wait." 
"Very  well,  I  will;  I  am  no  muse.  List-en  to  your 
inspiration  comfortably,  Ribalta,"  replied,  with  a  laugh, 
he  whom  the  vendor  of  old  books  received  with  such 
original  unconstraint.  He  was  evidently  accustomed 
to  the  eccentricities  of  the  strange  merchant.  In  Rome 
— for  this  scene  took  place  in  a  shop  at  the  end  of  one 
of  the  most  ancient  streets  of  the  Eternal  City,  a  few 
paces  from  the  Place  d'Espagne,  so  well  known  to 
tourists — in  the  city  which  serves  as  a  confluent  for  so 
many  from  all  points  of  the  world,  has  not  that  sense 
of  the  odd  been  obliterated  by  the  multiplicity  of  sin- 
gular and  anomalous  types  stranded  and  sheltering 
there?  You  will  find  there  revolutionists  like  boorish 
Ribalta,  who  is  ending  in  a  curiosity-shop  a  life  more 
eventful  than  the  most  eventful  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. 

Descended  from  a  Corsican  family,  this  personage 
came  to  Rome  when  very  young,  about  1835,  and  at 
first  became  a  seminarist.  On  the  point  of  being  or- 
dained a  priest,  he  disappeared  only  to  return,  in  1849, 
so  rabid  a  republican  that  he  was  outlawed  at  the  time 
of  the  reestablishment  of  the  pontifical  government. 
He  then  served  as  secretary  to  Mazzini,  with  whom  he 
disagreed  for  reasons  which  clashed  with  Ribalta's 
lionor.  Would  passion  for  a  woman  have  involved 
him  in  such  extravagance?  In  1870  Ribalta  returned 
to  Rome,  where  he  opened,  if  one  may  apply  such  a 
term  to  such  a  hole,  a  book-shop.  But  he  is  an  ama- 
teur bookseller,  and  will  refuse  you  admission  if  you 
displea.se  him.     Having  inherited  a  small  income,  he 


COSMOPOLIS 

sells  or  he  does  not,  following  his  fancy  or  the  require- 
ments of  his  own  purchases,  to-day  asking  you  twenty 
francs  for  a  wretched  engraving  for  which  he  paid  ten 
sous,  to-morrow  giving  you  at  a  low  price  a  costly  book, 
the  value  of  which  he  knows.  Rabid  Gallophobe,  he 
never  pardoned  his  old  general  the  campaign  of  Dijon 
any  more  than  he  forgave  Victor  Emmanuel  for  having 
left  the  Vatican  to  Pius  IX.  "The  house  of  Savoy 
and  the  papacy,"  said  he,  when  he  was  confidential, 
"are  two  eggs  which  we  must  not  eat  on  the  same 
dish."  And  he  would  tell  of  a  certain  pillar  of  St. 
Peter's  hollowed  into  a  staircase  by  Bernin,  where  a 
cartouch  of  dynamite  was  placed.  If  you  were  to  ask 
him  why  he  became  a  book  collector,  he  would  bid 
you  step  over  a  pile  of  papers,  of  boarding  and  of  folios. 
Then  he  would  show  you  an  immense  chamber,  or 
rather  a  shed,  where  thousands  of  pamphlets  were  piled 
up  along  the  walls:  "These  are  the  rules  of  all  the  con- 
vents suppressed  by  Italy.  I  shall  write  their  history." 
Then  he  would  stare  at  you,  for  he  would  fear  that 
you  might  be  a  spy  sent  by  the  king  with  the  sole  ob- 
ject of  learning  the  plans  of  his  most  dangerous  enemy 
— one  of  those  spies  of  whom  he  has  been  so  much  in 
awe  that  for  twenty  years  no  one  has  known  where  he 
slept,  where  he  ate,  where  he  hid  when  the  shutters  of 
his  shop  in  the  Rue  Borgognona  were  closed.  He  ex- 
pected, on  account  of  his  past,  and  his  secret  manner, 
to  be  arrested  at  the  time  of  the  outrage  of  Passanante 
as  one  of  the  members  of  those  Circoli  Barsanti,  to 
whom  a  refractory  corporal  gave  his  name. 

But,  on  examining  the  dusty  cartoons  of  the  old 

[7] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

book-stall,  the  police  discovered  nothing  except  a  pro- 
digious quantity  of  grotesque  verses  directed  against 
the  Piedmontese  and  the  French,  against  the  Germans 
and  the  Triple  Alliance,  against  the  Italian  republicans 
and  the  ministers,  against  Cavour  and  Signor  Crispi, 
against  the  University  of  Rome  and  the  Inquisition, 
against  the  monks  and  the  capitalists!  It  was,  no 
doubt,  one  of  those  pasquinades  which  his  customers 
watched  him  at  work  upon,  thinking,  as  he  did  so, 
how  Rome  abounded  in  paradoxical  meetings. 

For,  in  1867,  that  same  old  Garibaldian  exchanged 
shots  at  IMentana  with  the  Pope's  Zouaves,  among 
whom  was  Marquis  do  ]\Tontfanon,  for  so  was  called 
the  visitor  awaiting  Ribalta's  pleasure.  Twenty-three 
years  had  sufficed  to  make  of  the  two  impassioned 
soldiers  of  former  days  two  inoffensive  men,  one  of 
whom  sold  old  volumes  to  the  other!  And  there  is  a 
figure  such  as  you  will  not  find  anywhere  else — the 
French  nobleman  who  has  come  to  die  near  St. 
Peter's. 

Would  you  ])clicvc,  to  sec  him  with  his  coarse  boots, 
dressed  in  a  simple  coat  somewhat  threadbare,  a  round 
hat  covering  his  gray  head,  that  you  have  before  you 
one  of  the  famous  Parisian  dandies  of  1864?  Listen  to 
this  other  history.  Scruples  of  dcvoutness  coming  in 
the  wake  of  a  .serious  iHncss  cast  at  one  l)low  the  fre- 
fjuenter  of  the  Cajc  Anglais  and  gay  suppers  into  the 
ranks  of  the  pontifical  zouaves.  A  fir.st  .sojourn  in 
Rome  during  the  last  four  years  of  the  government  of 
Pius  IX,  in  that  incomparable  city  to  which  the  presen- 
timent of  the  approaching  termination  of  a  secular  rule, 

[8] 


COSMOPOLIS 

the  advent  of  the  Council,  and  the  French  occupation 
gave  a  still  more  peculiar  character,  was  enchantment. 
All  the  germs  of  piety  instilled  in  the  nobleman  by  the 
education  of  the  Jesuits  of  Brughetti  ended  by  reviving 
a  harvest  of  noble  virtues,  in  the  days  of  trial  which 
came  only  too  quickly.  Montfanon  made  the  cam- 
paign of  France  with  the  other  zouaves,  and  the  empty 
sleeve  which  was  turned  up  in  place  of  his  left  arm 
attested  with  what  courage  he  fought  at  Patay,  at  the 
time  of  that  sublime  charge  when  the  heroic  General  de 
Sonis  unfurled  the  banner  of  the  Sacred  Heart.  He  had 
been  a  duelist,  sportsman,  gambler,  lover,  but  to  those 
of  his  old  companions  of  pleasure  whom  chance  brought 
to  Rome  he  was  only  a  devotee  who  lived  economi- 
cally, notwithstanding  the  fact  that  he  had  saved  the 
remnants  of  a  large  fortune  for  alms,  for  reading  and 
for  collecting. 

Every  one  has  that  vice,  more  or  less,  in  Rome,  which 
is  in  itself  the  most  surprising  museum  of  history 
and  of  art.  Montfanon  is  collecting  documents  in 
order  to  write  the  history  of  the  French  nobility  and  of 
the  Church.  His  mistresses  of  the  time  when  he  was 
the  rival  of  the  Gramont-Caderousses  and  the  Demidoffs 
would  surely  not  recognize  him  any  more  than  he 
would  them.  But  are  they  as  happy  as  he  seems  to 
have  remained  through  his  life  of  sacrifice?  There  is 
laughter  in  his  blue  eyes,  which  attest  his  pure  Ger- 
manic origin,  and  which  light  up  his  face,  one  of  those 
feudal  faces  such  as  one  sees  in  the  portraits  hung 
upon  the  walls  of  the  priories  of  Malta,  where  plainness 
has  race.     A  thick,  white  moustache,  in  which  glim- 

[9] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

mers  a  vague  reflection  of  gold,  partly  hides  a  scar 
which  would  give  to  that  red  face  a  terrible  look  were 
it  not  for  the  expression  of  those  eyes,  in  which  there 
is  fervor  mingled  with  merriment.  For  Montfanon 
is  as  fanatical  on  certain  subjects  as  he  is  genial  and 
jovial  on  others.  If  he  had  the  power  he  would  un- 
doubtedly have  Ribalta  arrested,  tried,  and  condemned 
within  twenty- four  hours  for  the  crime  of  free-thinking. 
Not  having  it.  he  amused  himself  with  him,  so  much 
the  more  so  as  the  vanquished  Catholic  and  the  dis- 
contented Socialists  have  several  common  hatreds. 
Even  on  this  particular  morning  we  have  seen  with 
what  indulgence  he  bore  the  brusqueness  of  the  old 
bookseller,  at  whom  he  gazed  for  ten  minutes  without 
disconcerting  him  in  the  least.  At  length  the  revolu- 
tionist seemed  to  have  finished  his  epigram"  for  with  a 
quiet  smile  he  carefully  folded  the  sheet  of  paper,  put 
it  in  a  wooden  box  which  he  locked.  Then  he  turned 
around . 

"What  do  you  desire,  Marquis?"  he  asked,  without 
any  further  preliminary. 

''First  of  all,  you  will  have  to  read  me  your  poem, 
old  red-shirt,"  said  Montfanon,  "which  will  only  be 
my  recompense  for  having  awaited  your  good  pleasure 
more  patiently  than  an  ambassador.  Let  us  sec  whom 
are  you  abusing  in  those  verses?  Is  it  Don  Ciccio  or 
His  Majesty?  You  will  not  reply?  Arc  you  afraid 
that  I  shall  denounce  you  at  the  Quirinal?" 

"No  flies  enter  a  closed  mouth,"  replied  the  old  con- 
.spirator,  justifying  the  proverb  by  the  manner  in  which 
he  shut   his  toothless  moutli,   into  which,   indeed,  at 


COSMOPOLIS 

that  moment,  neither  a,  fly  nor  the  tiniest  grain  of  dust 
could  enter. 

"An  excellent  saying,"  returned  the  Marquis,  with 
a  laugh,  "and  one  I  should  like  to  see  engraved  on  the 
fajade  of  all  the  modern  parliaments.  But  between 
your  poetry  and  your  adages  have  you  taken  the  time 
to  write  for  me  to  that  bookseller  at  Vienna,  who  owns 
the  last  copy  of  the  pamphlet  on  the  trial  of  the  bandit 
Hafner?" 

"Patience,"  said  the  merchant.     "I  will  write." 

"And  my  document  on  the  siege  of  Rome,  by  Bour- 
bon, those  three  notarial  deeds  which  you  promised 
me,  have  you  dislodged  them?" 

"Patience,  patience,"  repeated  the  merchant,  add- 
ing, as  he  pointed  with  a  comical  mixture  of  irony 
and  of  despair  to  the  disorder  in  his  shop,  "How  can 
you  expect  me  to  know  where  I  am  in  the  midst  of  all 
this?" 

"Patience,  patience,"  repeated  Montfanon.  "For 
a  month  you  have  been  singing  that  old  refrain.  If,  in- 
stead of  composing  wretched  verses,  you  would  attend 
to  your  correspondence,  and,  if,  instead  of  buying  con- 
tinually, you  would  classify  this  confused  mass.  .  .  . 
But,"  said  he,  more  seriously,  with  a  brusque  gesture, 
"I  am  wrong  to  reproach  you  for  your  purchases, 
since  I  have  come  to  speak  to  you  of  one  of  the  last. 
Cardinal  Guerillot  told  me  that  you  showed  him, 
the  other  day,  an  interesting  prayer-book,  although 
in  very  bad  condition,  which  you  found  in  Tuscany. 
Where  is  it?" 

"Here  it  is,"  said  Ribalta,  who,  leaping  over  several 


PAUL  BOURGET 

piles  of  volumes  and  thrusting  aside  with  his  foot  an 
enormous  heap  of  cartoons,  opened  the  drawer  of  a 
tottering  press.  In  that  drawer  he  rummaged  among 
an  accumulation  of  odd,  incongruous  objects:  old 
medals  and  old  nails,  bookbindings  and  discolored 
engravings,  a  large  leather  box  gnawed  by  insects,  on 
the  outside  of  which  could  be  distinguished  a  partly 
effaced  coat-of-arms.  He  opened  that  box  and  extended 
toward  Montfanon  a  volume  covered  with  leather  and 
studded.  One  of  the  clasps  was  broken,  and  when  the 
Marquis  began  to  turn  over  the  pages,  he  could  see 
that  the  interior  had  not  been  better  taken  care  of 
than  the  exterior.  Colored  prints  had  originally  or- 
namented the  precious  work;  they  were  almost  effaced. 
The  yellow  parchment  had  been  torn  in  places.  In- 
deed, it  was  a  shapeless  ruin  which  the  curious  noble- 
man examined,  however,  with  the  greatest  care,  while 
Ribalta  made  up  his  mind  to  speak. 

"A  widow  of  Montalcino,  in  Tuscany,  sold  it  to  me. 
She  asked  me  an  enormous  price,  and  it  is  worth  it, 
although  it  is  slightly  damaged.  For  those  are  min- 
iatures by  Matteo  da  Siena,  who  made  them  for  Pope 
Pius  II  Piccolomini.  Look  at  the  one  which  rep- 
resents Saint  Blaise,  who  is  blessing  the  lions  and  pan- 
thers.    It  is  the  best  preserved.     Is  it  not  fine?" 

"Why  try  to  deceive  me,  Ribalta?"  interrupted 
Montfanon,  with  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "You  know 
as  well  as  I  that  these  miniatures  are  very  mediocre, 
and  that  they  do  not  in  the  least  resemble  Matteo's 
compact  work ;  and  another  proof  is  that  the  prayer- 
book   is  dated   1554.     See!"  and,  with  his  remaining 

[12I 


COSMOPOLIS 

hand,  very  adroitly  he  showed  the  merchant  the  figures; 
"and  as  I  have  quite  a  memory  for  dates,  and  as  I  am 
interested  in  Siena,  I  have  not  forgotten  that  Matteo 
died  before  1500.  I  did  not  go  to  college  with  Mac- 
chiavelli,"  continued  he,  with  some  brusqueness,  "but 
I  will  tell  you  that  which  the  Cardinal  would  have  told 
you  if  you  had  not  deceived  him  by  your  finesse,  as  you 
tried  to  deceive  me  just  now.  Look  at  this  partly  ef- 
faced signature,  which  you  have  not  been  able  to  read. 
I  will  decipher  it  for  you.  Blaise  de  Mo,  and  then  a  c, 
with  several  letters  missing,  just  three,  and  that  makes 
Montluc  in  the  orthography  of  the  time,  and  the  b  is  in 
a  handwriting  which  you  might  have  examined  in  the 
archives  of  that  same  Siena,  since  you  come  from  there. 
Now,  with  regard  to  this  coat-of-arms, "  and  he  closed 
the  book  to  detail  to  his  stupefied  companion  the  arms 
hardly  visible  on  the  cover,  "do  you  see  a  wolf,  which 
was  originally  of  gold,  and  turtles  of  gules?  Those 
are  the  arms  which  Montluc  has  borne  since  the  year 
1554,  when  he  was  made  a  citizen  of  Siena  for  having 
defended  it  so  bravely  against  the  terrible  Marquis  de 
Marignan.  As  for  the  box,"  he  took  it  in  its  turn  to 
study  it,  "these  are  really  the  half-moons  of  the  Pic- 
colominis.  But  what  does  that  prove?  That  after 
the  siege,  and  just  as  it  was  necessary  to  retire  to  Mon- 
talcino,  Montluc  gave  his  prayer-book,  as  a  souvenir, 
to  some  of  that  family.  The  volume  was  either  lost 
or  stolen,  and  finally  reduced  to  the  state  in  which  it 
now  is.  This  book,  too,  is  proof  that  a  little  French 
blood  was  shed  in  the  service  of  Italy.  But  those  who 
have  sold  it  have  forgotten  that,  like  Magenta  and 

[13] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

Solferino,  you  have  only  memory  for  hatred.  Now 
that  you  know  why  I  want  your  prayer-book,  will  you 
sell  it  to  me  for  five  hundred  francs?" 

The  bookseller  listened  to  that  discourse  with  twenty 
contradictory  expressions  upon  his  face.  From  force 
of  habit  he  felt  for  Montfanon  a  sort  of  respect  mingled 
with  animosity,  which  evidently  rendered  it  very  pain- 
ful for  him  to  have  been  surprised  in  the  act  of  telling 
an  untruth.  It  is  necessary,  to  be  just,  to  add  that  in 
speaking  of  the  great  painter  Matteo  and  of  Pope 
Pius  II  in  connection  with  that  unfortunate  volume, 
he  had  not  thought  that  the  Marquis,  ordinarily  very 
economical  and  who  limited  his  purchases  to  the  strict 
domain  of  ecclesiastical  history,  would  have  the  least 
desire  for  that  prayer-book.  He  had  magnified  the 
subject  with  a  view  to  forming  a  legend  and  to  taking 
advantage  of  some  rich,  unversed  amateur. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  the  name  of  Montluc  meant 
absolutely  nothing  to  him,  it  was  not  the  same  with 
the  direct  and  brutal  allusion  which  his  interlocutor 
had  made  to  the  war  of  1859.  It  is  always  a  thorn  in 
the  flesh  of  those  of  our  neighbors  from  beyond  the 
Alps  who  do  not  love  us.  The  pride  of  the  Garibaldian 
was  not  far  behind  the  generosity  of  the  former  zouave. 
With  an  abruptness  equal  to  that  of  Montfanon,  he 
took  up  the  volume  and  grumbled  as  he  turned  it  over 
and  over  in  his  inky  fingers: 

"I  would  not  sell  it  for  six  hundred  francs.  No,  I 
would  not  sell  it  for  six  hundred  francs." 

"It  is  a  very  large  sum,"  said  Montfanon. 

"No,"  continued  the  good  man,  "I  would  not  sell 

[i4l 


COSMOPOLIS 

it."  Then  extending  it  to  the  Marquis,  in  evident 
excitement,  he  cried:  "But  to  you  I  will  sell  it  for 
four  hundred  francs." 

"But  I  have  offered  you  five  hundred  francs  for  it," 
said  the  nonplussed  purchaser.  "You  know  that  is  a 
small  sum  for  such  a  curiosity." 

"Take  it  for  four,"  insisted  Ribalta,  growing  more 
and  more  eager,  "not  a  sou  less,  not  a  sou  more."  It 
is  what  it  cost  me.  And  you  shall  have  your  docu- 
ments in  two  days  and  the  Hafner  papers  this  week. 
But  was  that  Bourbon  who  sacked  Rome  a  French- 
man?" he  continued.  "xA.nd  Charles  d'Anjou,  who 
fell  upon  us  to  make  himself  King  of  the  two  Sicilies? 
And  Charles  VIII,  who  entered  by  the  Porte  du  Peuple  ? 
Were  they  Frenchmen  ?  Why  did  they  come  to  meddle 
in  our  affairs?  Ah,  if  we  were  to  calculate  closely, 
how  much  you  owe  us!  Was  it  not  we  who  gave 
you  Mazarin,  Massena,  Bonaparte  and  many  others 
who  have  gone  to  die  in  your  army  in  Russia,  in  Spain 
and  elsewhere?  And  at  Dijon?  Did  not  Garibaldi 
stupidly  fight  for  you,  who  would  have  taken  from 
him  his  country  ?  We  are  quits  on  the  score  of  serv- 
ice. .  .  .  But  take  your  prayer-book  —  good-evening, 
good-evening.     You  can  pay  me  later." 

And  he  literally  pushed  the  Marquis  out  of  the  stall, 
gesticulating  and  throwing  down  books  on  all  sides. 
Montfanon  found  himself  in  the  street  before  having 
been  able  to  draw  from  his  pocket  the  money  he  had 
got  ready. 

"What  a  madman!  My  God,  what  a  madman!" 
said  he  to  himself,  with  a  laugh.     He  left  the  shop  at 

[15] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

a  brisk  pace,  with  the  precious  book  under  his  arm. 
He  understood,  from  having  frequently  come  in  con- 
tact with  them,  those  southern  natures,  in  which  swin- 
dling and  chivalry  elbow  without  harming  one  another 
— Don  Quixotes  who  set  their  own  windmills  in  mo- 
tion.    He  asked  himself: 

"How  much  would  he  still  make  after  playing  the 
magnamimous  with  me?"  His  question  was  never 
to  be  answered,  nor  was  he  to  know  that  Ribalta  had 
bought  the  rare  volume  among  a  heap  of  papers,  engrav- 
ings, and  old  books,  paying  twenty-five  francs  for  all. 
Moreover,  two  encounters  which  followed  one  upon  the 
other  on  leaving  the  shop,  prevented  him  from  medi- 
tating on  that  problem  of  commercial  psychology.  He 
paused  for  a  moment  at  the  end  of  the  street  to  cast  a 
glance  at  the  Place  d'Espagne,  which  he  loved  as  one 
of  those  corners  unchanged  for  the  last  thirty  years. 
On  that  morning  in  the  early  days  of  May,  the  square, 
with  its  sinuous  edge,  was  indeed  charming  with  bustle 
and  light,  with  the  houses  which  gave  it  a  proper  con- 
tour, with  the  double  staircase  of  La  Trinite-dcs-Monts 
lined  with  idlers,  with  the  water  which  gushed  from 
a  large  fountain  in  the  form  of  a  bark  placed  in  the 
centre — one  of  the  innumerable  caprices  in  which  the 
fancy  of  Bcrnin,  that  illusive  decorator,  delighted  to 
indulge.  Indeed,  at  that  hour  and  in  that  light,  the 
fountain  was  as  natural  in  effect  as  were  the  nimble 
hawkers  who  held  in  their  extended  arms  baskets  filled 
with  roses,  narcissus,  red  anemones,  fragile  cyclamens 
and  dark  pansies.  Barefooted,  with  sparkling  eyes, 
entreaties  upon  their  lips,  they  glided  among  the  car- 

[t6] 


COSMOPOLIS 

riages  which  passed  along  rapidly,  fewer  than  in  the 
height  of  the  season,  still  quite  numerous,  for  spring 
was  very  late  this  year,  and  it  came  with  delightful 
freshness.  The  flower- sellers  besieged  the  hurried  pas- 
sers-by, as  well  as  those  who  paused  at  the  shop-win- 
dows, and,  devout  Catholic  as  Montfanon  was,  he 
tasted,  in  the  face  of  the  picturesque  scene  of  a  beau- 
tiful morning  in  his  favorite  city,  the  pleasure  of  crown- 
ing that  impression  of  a  bright  moment  by  a  dream 
of  eternity.  He  had  only  to  turn  his  eyes  to  the  right, 
toward  the  College  de  la  Propagande,  a  seminary  from 
which  all  the  missions  of  the  world  set  out. 

But  it  was  decreed  that  the  impassioned  noble- 
man should  not  enjoy  undisturbed  the  bibliographical 
trifle  obtained  so  cheaply  and  which  he  carried  under 
his  arm,  nor  that  feeling  so  thoroughly  Roman ;  a  sud- 
den apparition  surprised  him  at  the  corner  of  a  street, 
at  an  angle  of  the  sidewalk.  His  bright  eyes  lost  their 
serenity  when  a  carriage  passed  by  him,  a  carriage, 
perfectly  appointed,  drawn  by  two  black  horses,  and 
in  which,  notwithstanding  the  early  hour,  sat  two  la- 
dies. The  one  was  evidently  an  inferior,  a  companion 
who  acted  as  chaperon  to  the  other,  a  young  girl  of  al- 
most sublime  beauty,  with  large  black  eyes,  which  con- 
trasted strongly  with  a  pale  complexion,  but  a  pallor 
in  which  there  was  warmth  and  Hfe.  Her  profile,  of 
an  Oriental  purity,  was  so  much  on  the  order  of  the 
Jewish  type  that  it  left  scarcely  a  doubt  as  to  the 
Hebrew  origin  of  the  creature,  a  veritable  vision  of 
loveliness,  who  seemed  created,  as  the  poets  say,  "To 
draw  all  hearts  in  her  wake."  But  no!  The  jovial, 
2  [17] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

kindly  face  of  the  Marquis  suddenly  darkened  as  he 
watched  the  girl  about  to  turn  the  corner  of  the  street, 
and  who  bowed  to  a  ver}^  fashionable  young  man,  who 
undoubtedly  knew  the  late  pontifical  zouave,  for  he 
approached  him  familiarly,  saying,  in  a  mocking  tone 
and  in  a  French  which  came  direct  from  France: 

"Well!  Now  I  have  caught  you.  Marquis  Claude- 
Francois  de  Montfanon !  .  .  .  She  has  come,  you  have 
seen  her,  you  have  been  conquered.  Have  your  eyes 
feasted  upon  divine  Fanny  Hafner?  Tremble!  I 
shall  denounce  you  to  his  Eminence,  Cardinal  Gueril- 
lot;  and  if  you  malign  his  charming  catcchist  I  will 
be  there  to  testify  that  I  saw  you  h}^notized  as  she 
passed,  as  were  the  people  of  Troy  by  Helen.  And  I 
know  very  positively  that  Helen  had  not  so  modern  a 
grace,  so  beautiful  a  mind,  so  ideal  a  profile,  so  deep 
a  glance,  so  dreamy  a  mouth  and  such  a  smile.  Ah, 
how  lovely  she  is!    When  shall  you  call?" 

"If  Monsieur  Julien  Dorsenne, "  replied  Montfanon, 
in  the  same  mocking  tone,  "does  not  pay  more  attention 
to  his  new  novel  than  he  is  doing  at  this  moment,  I 
pity  his  publisher.  Come  here,"  he  added,  brusquely, 
dragging  the  young  man  to  the  angle  of  Rue  Borgo- 
gnona.  "Did  you  sec  the  victoria  stop  at  No.  13,  and 
the  divine  Fanny,  as  you  call  her,  alight?  .  .  .  She 
has  entered  the  shop  of  that  old  rascal,  Ribalta.  She 
will  not  remain  there  long.  She  will  come  out,  and 
she  will  drive  away  in  her  carriage.  It  is  a  pity  she 
will  not  pass  by  us  again.  We  should  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  her  disappointed  air.  This  is  what 
she  is  in  search  of,"  added  he,  with  a  gay  laugh,  ex- 

[18] 


COSMOPOLIS 

hibiting  his  purchase,  "but  which  she  could  not  have 
were  she  to  offer  all  the  millions  which  her  honest 
father  has  stolen  in  Vienna.  Ha,  ha!"  he  concluded, 
laughing  still  more  heartily,  "  Monsieur  de  Montfanon 
rose  first;  this  morning  has  not  been  lost,  and  you. 
Monsieur,  can  see  what  I  obtained  at  the  curiosity-shop 
of  that  old  fellow  who  will  not  make  a  plaything  of  this 
object,  at  least,"  he  added,  extending  the  book  to  his 
interlocutor,  at  whom  he  glanced  with  a  comical  expres- 
sion of  triumph. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  look  at  it,"  responded  Dorsenne. 
"But,  yes,"  he  continued,  as  Montfanon  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  "in  my  capacity  of  novelist  and  observer, 
since  you  cast  it  at  my  head,  I  know  already  what  it  is. 
What  do  you  bet  ?  ...  It  is  a  prayer-book  which  bears 
the  signature  of  Marshal  de  Montluc,  and  which  Car- 
dinal Guerillot  discovered.  Is  that  true?  He  spoke 
to  Mademoiselle  Hafner  about  it,  and  he  thought  he 
would  mitigate  your  animosity  toward  her  by  telling 
you  she  was  an  enthusiast  and  wished  to  buy  it.  Is 
that  true  as  well?  And  you,  wretched  man,  had  only 
one  thought,  to  deprive  that  poor  little  thing  of  the 
trifle.  Is  that  true?  We  spent  the  evening  before 
last  together  at  Countess  Steno's;  she  talked  to  me  of 
nothing  but  her  desire  to  have  the  book  on  which  the 
illustrious  soldier,  the  great  beHever,  had  prayed.  She 
told  me  of  all  her  heroic  resolutions.  Later  she  went 
to  buy  it.  But  the  shop  was  closed;  I  noticed  it  on 
passing,  and  you  certainly  went  there,  too.  ...  Is 
that  true  ?  .  .  .  And,  now  that  I  have  detailed  to  you 
the  story,  explain  to  me,  you  who  are  so  just,  why  you 

[19] 


PAUL  BOUKGET 

cherish  an  antipathy  so  bitter  and  so  childish — excuse 
the  word !— for  an  innocent,  young  girl,  who  has  never 
speculated  on  'Change,  who  is  as  charitable  as  a  whole 
convent,  and  who  is  fast  becoming  as  devout  as  your- 
self. Were  it  not  for  her  father,  who  will  not  listen 
to  the  thought  of  conversion  before  marriage,  she  would 
already  be  a  Catholic,  and — Protestants  as  they  are 
for  the  moment — she  would  never  go  anywhere  but  to 
church.  .  .  .  When  she  is  altogether  a  Catholic,  and 
under  the  protection  of  a  Sainte-Claudine  and  a  Sainte- 
Franfoise,  as  you  are  under  the  protection  of  Saint- 
Claude  and  Saint-Franfois,  you  will  have  to  lay  down 
your  arms,  old  leaguer,  and  acknowledge  the  sincerity 
of  the  religious  sentiments  of  that  child  who  has  never 
harmed   you." 

"What!  She  has  done  nothing  to  me?^'  .  .  .  in- 
terrupted Montfanon.  "But  it  is  quite  natural  that 
a  sceptic  should  not  comprehend  what  she  has  done 
to  me,  what  she  does  to  me  daily,  not  to  me  personally, 
but  to  my  opinions.  When  one  has,  like  you,  learned 
intellectual  athletics  in  the  circus  of  the  Sainte-Beuves 
and  Rcnans,  one  must  think  it  fine  that  Catholicism, 
that  grand  thing,  should  serve  as  a  plaything  for  the 
daughter  of  a  pirate  who  aims  at  an  aristocratic  mar- 
riage. It  may,  too,  amuse  you  that  my  holy  friend, 
Cardinal  Gucrillot,  should  be  the  dupe  of  that  in- 
triguer. But  I,  Monsieur,  who  have  received  the  sac- 
rament by  the  side  of  a  Sonis,  I  can  not  admit  that  one 
should  make  use  of  what  was  the  faith  of  that  hero  to 
thrust  one's  self  into  the  world.  I  do  not  admit  that  one 
should  play  the  role  of  dupe  and  accomplice  to  an  old 

[20] 


COSMOPOLIS 

man  whom  I  venerate  and  whom  I  shall  enlighten,  I  give 
you  my  word." 

"And  as  for  this  ancient  relic,"  he  continued,  again 
showing  the  volume,  "you  may  think  it  childish  that 
I  do  not  wish  it  mixed  up  in  the  shameful  comedy.  But 
no,  it  shall  not  be.  They  shall  not  exhibit  with  words 
of  'emotion,  with  tearful  eyes,  this  breviary  on  which 
once  prayed  that  grand  soldier;  yes,  Monsieur,  that 
great  believer.  She  has  done  nothing  to  me,"  he  re- 
peated, growing  more  and  more  excited,  his  red  face 
becoming  purple  with  rage,  "but  they  are  the  quin- 
tessence of  what  I  detest  the  most,  people  like  her  and 
her  father.  They  are  the  incarnation  of  the  modern 
world,  in  which  there  is  nothing  more  despicable  than 
these  cosmopolitan  adventurers,  who  play  at  grand 
seigneur  with  the  millions  filibustered  in  some  stroke 
on  the  Bourse.  First,  they  have  no  country.  What 
is  this  Baron  Justus  Hafner — German,  Austrian, 
Italian?  Do  you  know?  They  have  no  religion. 
The  name,  the  father's  face,  that  of  the  daughter,  pro- 
claim them  Jews,  and  they  are  Protestants — jor  the 
moment,  as  you  have  too  truthfully  said,  while  they 
prepare  themselves  to  become  Mussulmen  or  what  not. 
For  the  moment,  when  it  is  a  question  of  God !  .  .  .  They 
have  no  family.  Where  was  this  man  reared?  What 
did  his  father,  his  mother,  his  brothers,  his  sisters  do? 
Where  did  he  grow  up?  Where  are  his  traditions? 
Where  is  his  past,  all  that  constitutes,  all  that  estab- 
lishes the  moral  man  ?  .  .  .  Just  look.  All  is  mystery 
in  this  personage,  excepting  this,  which  is  very  clear: 
if  he  had  received  his  due  in  Vienna,  at  the  time  of  the 

[21] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

suit  of  the  Credit  Austro-Dalmaie,  in  1880,  he  would 
be  in  the  galleys,  instead  of  in  Rome.  The  facts  were 
these :  there  were  innumerable  failures.  I  know  some- 
thing about  it.  My  poor  cousin  De  Saint-Remy,  who 
was  with  the  Comte  de  Chambord,  lost  the  bread 
of  his  old  age  and  his  daughter's  dowry.  There  were 
suicides  and  deeds  of  violence,  notably  that  of  a  cer- 
tain Schroeder,  who  went  mad  on  account  of  that 
crash,  and  who  killed  himself,  after  murdering  his  wife 
and  his  two  children.  And  the  Baron  came  out  of  it 
unsullied.  It  is  not  ten  years  since  the  occurrence, 
and  it  is  forgotten.  When  he  settled  in  Rome  he  found 
open  doors,  extended  hands,  as  he  would  have  found 
them  in  Madrid,  London,  Paris,  or  elsewhere.  People 
go  to  his  house;  they  receive  him!  And  you  wish  me 
to  believe  in  the  devoutness  of  that  man's  daughter!  .  .  . 
No,  a  thousand  times  no;  and  you  yourself,  Dorsenne, 
with  your  mania  for  paradoxes  and  sophisms,  you  have 
the  right  spirit  in  you,  and  these  people  horrify  you  in 
reality,  as  they  do  me." 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  replied  the  writer, 
who  had  listened  to  the  Marquis's  tirade;  with  an  un- 
convinced smile,  he  repeated:  "Not  the  least  in  the 
world.  .  .  .  You  have  spoken  of  me  as  an  acrobat  or 
an  athlete.  I  am  not  offended,  because  it  is  you,  and 
because  I  know  that  you  love  me  dearly.  Let  me  at 
least  have  the  suppleness  of  one.  I'^irst,  before  pass- 
ing judgment  on  a  financial  affair  I  shall  wait  until  I 
understand  it.  Hafner  was  acquitted.  That  is  enough, 
for  one  thing.  Were  he  even  the  greatest  rogue  in  the 
universe,  that  would  not  j)revent  his  (laughter  from  be- 

[22] 


COSMOPOLIS 

ing  an  angel,  for  another.  As  for  that  cosmopolitan- 
ism for  which  you  censure  him,  we  do  not  agree  there; 
it  is  just  that  which  interests  me  in  him.  Thirdly,  .  .  . 
I  should  not  consider  that  I  had  lost  the  six  months 
spent  in  Rome,  if  I  had  met  only  him.  Do  not  look  at 
me  as  if  I  were  one  of  the  patrons  of  the  circus,  Uncle 
Beuve,  or  poor  Monsieur  Renan  himself, "  he  continued, 
tapping  the  Marquis's  shoulder.  "  I  swear  to  you  that  I 
am  very  serious.  Nothing  interests  me  more  than  these 
exceptions  to  the  general  rule — than  those  who  have 
passed  through  two,  three,  four  phases  of  existence. 
Those  individuals  are  my  museum,  and  you  wish  me 
to  sacrifice  to  your  scruples  one  of  my  finest  subjects.  .  . . 
Moreover," — and  the  malice  of  the  remark  he  was 
about  to  make  caused  the  young  man's  eyes  to  sparkle 
— "revile  Baron  Hafner  as  much  as  you  like,"  he  con- 
tinued; "call  him  a  thief  and  a  snob,  an  intriguer  and 
a  knave,  if  it  pleases  you.  But  as  for  being  a  person 
who  does  not  know  where  his  ancestors  lived,  I  reply, 
as  did  Bonhomet  when  he  reached  heaven  and  the  Lord 
said  to  him:  'Still  a  chimney-doctor,  Bonhomet?' 
'And  you.  Lord?'  .  .  .  For  you  were  born  in  Bour- 
gogne.  Monsieur  de  Montfanon,  of  an  ancient  family, 
related  to  all  the  nobility — upon  which  I  congratu- 
late you — and  you  have  lived  here  in  Rome  for  al- 
most twenty-four  years,  in  the  Cosmopolis  which  you 
revile." 

"First  of  all,"  replied  the  Pope's  former  soldier, 
holding  up  his  mutilated  arm,  "I  might  say  that  I  no 
longer  count,  I  do  not  live.  And  then,"  his  face  be- 
came inspired,  and  the  depths  of  that  narrow  mind, 

[23] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

often  blinded  but  very  exalted,  suddenly  appeared, 
"and  then,  my  Rome  to  me,  Monsieur,  has  nothing  in 
common  with  that  of  Monsieur  Hafner  nor  with  yours, 
since  you  are  come,  it  seems,  to  pursue  studies  of  moral 
teratology.  Rome  to  me  is  not  Cosmopolis,  as  you 
say,  it  is  Metropolis,  it  is  the  mother  of  cities.  You 
forget  that  I  am  a  Catholic  in  every  fibre,  and  that  I 
am  at  home  here.  I  am  here  because  I  am  a  mon- 
archist, because  I  beHeve  in  old  France  as  you  believe 
in  the  modern  world;  and  I  serve  her  in  my  fashion, 
which  is  not  very  efficacious,  but  which  is  one  way, 
nevertheless.  .  .  .  The  post  of  trustee  of  Saint  Louis, 
which  I  accepted  from  Corcelle,  is  to  me  my  duty,  and  I 
will  sustain  it  in  the  best  way  in  my  power.  .  .  .  Ah! 
that  ancient  France,  how  one  feels  her  grandeur  here, 
and  what  a  part  she  is  known  to  have  bad  in  Chris- 
tianity !  It  is  that  chord  which  I  should  like  to  have 
heard  vibrate  in  a  fluent  writer  like  you,  and  not  eter- 
nally those  paradoxes,  those  sophisms.  But  what  mat- 
ters it  to  you  who  date  from  yesterday  and  who  boast 
of  it,"  he  added,  almost  sadly,  "that  in  the  most  insig- 
nificant corners  of  this  city  centuries  of  history  abound  ? 
Does  your  heart  blush  at  the  sight  of  the  faf ade  of  the 
church  of  Saint-Louis,  the  salamander  of  Franfois  I  and 
the  lilies  ?  Do  you  know  why  the  Rue  Bargognona  is 
called  thus,  and  that  near  by  is  Saint-Claude-des-Bour- 
guignons,  our  church  ?  Have  you  visited,  you  who  are 
from  thcVosges,  that  of  your  province,  Saint-Nicolas-des- 
Lorrains?     Do  you  know  Saint- Yves-dcs-Brctons? 

"But,"  and  here  his  voice  assumed  a  gay  accent, 
"I  have  thoroughly  charged  into  that  rascal  of  a  Haf- 

[24] 


COSMOPOLIS 

ner.  I  have  laid  him  before  you  without  any  hesita- 
tion. I  have  spoken  to  you  as  I  feel,  with  all  the  fer- 
vor of  my  heart,  although  it  may  seem  sport  to  you. 
You  will  be  punished,  for  I  shall  not  allow  you  to  es- 
cape. I  will  take  you  to  the  France  of  other  days. 
You  shall  dine  with  me  at  noon,  and  between  this  and 
then  we  will  make  the  tour  of  those  churches  I  have 
just  named.  During  that  time  we  will  go  back  one 
hundred  and  fifty  years  in  the  past,  into  that  world  in 
which  there  were  neither  cosmopolites  nor  dilettantes. 
It  is  the  old  world,  but  it  is  hardy,  and  the  proof  is 
that  it  has  endured;  while  your  society — look  where 
it  is  after  one  hundred  years  in  France,  in  Italy,  in 
England— thanks  to  that  detestable  Gladstone,  of 
whom  pride  has  made  a  second  Nebuchadnezzar.  It 
is  hke  Russia,  your  society;  according  to  the  only  de- 
cent words  of  the  obscene  Diderot,  'rotten  before  ma- 
ture!'    Come,  will  you  go?" 

"You  are  mistaken,"  replied  the  writer,  "in  think- 
ing that.  I  do  not  love  your  old  France,  but  that  does 
not  prevent  me  from  enjoying  the  new.  One  can  like 
wine  and  champagne  at  the  same  time.  But  I  am 
not  at  liberty.  I  must  visit  the  exposition  at  Palais 
Castagna  this  morning. " 

"You  will  not  do  that,"  exclaimed  impetuous  Mont- 
fanon,  whose  severe  face  again  expressed  one  of  those 
contrarieties  which  caused  it  to  brighten  when  he  was 
with  one  of  whom  he  was  fond  as  he  was  of  Dorsenne. 
"You  would  not  have  gone  to  see  the  King  assassinated 
in  '93  ?  The  selling  at  auction  of  the  old  dwelling  of 
Pope  Urban  VII  is  almost  as  tragical!     It  is  the  be- 

[25] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

ginning  of  the  agony  of  what  was  Roman  nobihty.  I 
know.  They  deserve  it  all,  since  they  were  not  killed 
to  the  last  man  on  the  steps  of  the  Vatican  when  the 
Italians  took  the  city.  We  should  have  done  it,  we  who 
had  no  popes  among  our  grand-uncles,  if  we  had  not 
been  busy  fighting  elsewhere.  But  it  is  none  the  less 
pitiful  to  see  the  hammer  of  the  appraisers  raised  above 
a  palace  with  which  is  connected  centuries  of  history. 
Upon  my  life,  if  I  were  Prince  d'Ardea — if  I  had  in- 
herited the  blood,  the  house,  the  titles  of  the  Castagnas, 
and  if  I  thought  I  should  leave  nothing  behind  me  of 
that  which  my  fathers  had  amassed — I  swear  to  you, 
Dorsenne,  I  should  die  of  grief.  And  if  you  recall  the 
fact  that  the  unhappy  youth  is  a  spoiled  child  of  eight- 
and-twenty,  surrounded  by  flatterers,  without  parents, 
without  friends,  without  counsellors,  that  he  risked  his 
patrimony  on  the  Bourse  among  thieves  of  the  integ- 
rity of  Monsieur  Hafner,  that  all  the  wealth  collected 
by  that  succession  of  popes,  of  cardinals,  of  warriors, 
of  diplomatists,  has  served  to  enrich  ignoble  men,  you 
would  think  the  occurrence  too  lamentable  to  have 
any  share  in  it,  even  as  a  spectator.  Come,  I  will  take 
you  to  Saint-Claude." 

"I  assure  you  I  am  expected,"  replied  Dorsenne, 
disengaging  his  arm,  which  his  despotic  friend  had 
already  seized.  "It  is  very  strange  that  I  should 
meet  you  on  the  way,  having  the  rendezvous  I  have. 
I,  who  dote  on  contrasts,  shall  not  have  lost  my  morn- 
ing. Have  you  the  patience  to  listen  to  the  enumera- 
tion of  the  persons  whom  I  shall  join  immediately? 
It  will  not  be  very  long,  but  do  not  interrupt  me.     You 

[26] 


COSMOPOLIS 

will  be  angry  if  you  will  survive  the  blow  I  am  about 
to  give  you.  Ah,  you  do  not  wish  to  call  your  Rome 
a  C osmo polls ;  then  what  do  you  say  to  the  party  with 
which,  in  twenty  minutes,  I  shall  visit  the  ancient  pal- 
ace of  Urban  VII  ?  First  of  all,  we  have  your  beau- 
tiful enemy,  Fanny  Hafner,  and  her  father,  the  Baron, 
representing  a  little  of  Germany,  a  little  of  Austria,  a 
little  of  Italy  and  a  little  of  Holland.  For  it  seems  the 
Baron's  mother  was  from  Rotterdam.  Do  not  inter- 
rupt. We  shall  have  Countess  Steno  to  represent 
Venice,  and  her  charming  daughter,  Alba,  to  represent 
a  small  corner  of  Russia,  for  the  Chronicle  claims  that 
she  was  the  child,  not  of  the  defunct  Steno,  but  of 
Werekiew — Andre,  you  know,  the  one  who  killed  him- 
self in  Paris  five  or  six  years  ago,  by  casting  himself 
into  the  Seine,  not  at  all  aristocratically,  from  the 
Pont  de  la  Concorde.  We  shall  have  the  painter,  the 
celebrated  Lincoln  Maitland,  to  represent  America. 
He  is  the  lover  of  Steno,  whom  he  stole  from  Gorka 
during  the  latter' s  trip  to  Poland.  We  shall  have  the 
painter's  wife,  Lydia  Maitland,  and  her  brother,  Flor- 
ent  Chapron,  to  represent  a  little  of  France,  a  little 
of  America,  and  a  little  of  Africa;  for  their  grand- 
father was  the  famous  Colonel  Chapron  mentioned  in 
the  Memorial,  who,  after  1815,  became  a  planter  in 
Alabama.  That  old  soldier,  without  any  prejudices, 
had,  by  a  mulattress,  a  son  whom  he  recognized  and 
to  whom  he  left — I  do  not  know  how  many  dollars. 
Inde  Lydia  and  Florent.  Do  not  interrupt,  it  is  al- 
most finished.  We  shall  have,  to  represent  England,  a 
Catholic  wedded  to  a  Pole,  Madame  Gorka,  the  wife 

[27] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

of  Boleslas,  and,  lastly,  Paris,  in  the  form  of  your  ser- 
vant. It  is  now  I  who  will  essay  to  drag  you  away, 
for  were  you  to  join  our  party,  you,  the  feudal,  it  would 
be  complete.  .  .  .  Will  you  come?" 

"Has  the  blow  satisfied  you?"  asked  Montfanon. 
"And  the  unhappy  man  has  talent,"  he  exclaimed, 
talking  of  Dorsenne  as  if  the  latter  were  not  present, 
"and  he  has  written  ten  pages  on  Rhodes  which  are 
worthy  of  Chateaubriand,  and  he  has  received  from 
God  the  noblest  gifts — poetry,  wit,  the  sense  of  history; 
and  in  what  society  does  he  delight!  But,  come,  once 
for  all,  explain  to  me  the  pleasure  which  a  man  of  your 
genius  can  find  in  frequenting  that  international  Bo- 
hemia, more  or  less  gilded,  in  which  there  is  not  one 
being  who  has  standing  or  a  history.  I  no  longer 
allude  to  that  scoundrel  Hafner  and  his  daughter,  since 
you  have  for  her,  novelist  that  you  arc,  the  eyes  of 
Monsieur  Guerillot.  But  that  Countess  Steno,  who 
must  be  at  least  forty,  who  has  a  grown  daughter, 
should  she  not  remain  quietly  in  her  palace  at  Venice, 
respectably,  bravely,  instead  of  holding  here  that  spe- 
cies of  salon  for  transients,  through  which  pass  all  the 
libertines  of  Europe,  instead  of  having  lover  after  lover, 
a  Pole  after  a  Russian,  an  American  after  a  Pole? 
And  that  Maitland,  why  did  he  not  obey  the  only  good 
sentiment  with  which  his  com])atriots  are  inspired, 
the  aversion  to  negro  l^loorl,  an  a\'crsi()n  wliich  would 
prevent  them  from  doing  what  he  has  done — from 
marrying  an  octoroon?  If  the  young  woman  knows 
of  it,  it  is  terrible,  and  if  she  does  not  it  is  still  more 
terrible.     And  Madame  Gorka,  that  honest  creature, 

[28] 


COSMOPOLIS 

for  I  believe  she  is,  and  truly  pious  as  well,  who  has 
not  observed  for  the  past  two  years  that  her  husband 
was  the  Countess's  lover,  and  who  does  not  see,  more- 
over, that  it  is  now  Maitland's  turn.  And  that  poor 
Alba  Steno,  that  child  of  twenty,  whom  they  drag 
through  these  improper  intrigues!  Why  does  not 
Florent  Chapron  put  an  end  to  the  adultery  of  her  sis- 
ter's husband?  I  know  him.  He  once  came  to  see 
me  with  regard  to  a  monument  he  was  raising  in  Saint- 
Louis  in  memory  of  his  cousin.  He  respects  the  dead, 
that  pleased  me.  But  he  is  a  dupe  in  this  sinister 
comedy  at  which  you  are  assisting,  you,  who  know  all, 
while  your  heart  does  not  revolt." 

" Pardon, pardon ! "  interrupted  Dorsenne,  "it  is  not 
a  question  of  that.  You  wander  on  and  you  forget 
what  you  have  just  asked  me.  .  .  .  What  pleasure  do 
I  find  in  the  human  mosaic  which  I  have  detailed  to 
you  ?  I  will  tell  you,  and  we  will  not  talk  of  the  morals, 
if  you  please,  when  we  are  simply  dealing  with  the  in- 
tellect. I  do  not  pride  myself  on  being  a  judge  of 
human  nature,  sir  leaguer;  I  like  to  watch  and  to  study 
it,  and  among  all  the  scenes  it  can  present  I  know  of 
none  more  suggestive,  more  peculiar,  and  more  modern 
than  this:  You  are  in  a  salon,  at  a  dining-table,  at  a 
party  like  that  to  which  I  am  going  this  morning.  You 
are  with  ten  persons  who  all  speak  the  same  language, 
are  dressed  by  the  same  tailor,  have  read  the  same 
morning  paper,  think  the  same  thoughts  and  feel  the 
same  sentiments.  .  .  .  But  these  persons  are  like  those 
I  have  just  enumerated  to  you,  creatures  from  very 
different  points  of  the   world   and   of  histor}\     You 

[29] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

study  them  with  all  that  you  know  of  their  origin  and 
their  heredity,  and  little  by  little  beneath  the  varnish 
of  cosmopolitanism  you  discover  their  race,  irresist- 
ible, indestructible  race!  In  the  mistress  of  the  house, 
very  elegant,  very  cultured,  for  example,  a  Madame 
Steno,  you  discover  the  descendant  of  the  Doges,  the 
patrician  of  the  fifteenth  century,  with  the  form  of  a 
queen,  strength  in  her  passion  and  frankness  in  her  in- 
comparable immorality;  while  in  a  Florent  Chapron 
or  a  Lydia  you  discover  the  primitive  slave,  the  black 
hypnotized  by  the  white,  the  unfreed  being  produced 
by  centuries  of  ser\'itude;  while  in  a  Madame  Gorka 
you  recognize  beneath  her  smiling  amiability  the  fanat- 
icism of  truth  of  the  Puritans;  beneath  the  artistic 
refinement  of  a  Lincoln  Maitland  you  find  the  squat- 
ter, invincibly  coarse  and  robust ;  in  Boleslas  Gorka  all 
the  nervous  irritability  of  the  Slav,  which  has  ruined 
Poland.  These  lineaments  of  race  arc  hardly  visible 
in  the  civilized  person,  who  speaks  three  or  four  lan- 
guages fluently,  who  has  lived  in  Paris,  Nice,  Florence, 
here,  that  same  fashionable,  monotonous  life.  But 
when  passion  strikes  its  blow,  when  the  man  is  stirred 
to  his  inmost  depths,  then  occurs  the  conflict  of  char- 
acteristics, more  surprising  when  the  pco];)le  thus 
brought  together  have  come  from  afar.  And  that  is 
why,"  he  concluded  with  a  laugh,  "I  have  spent  six 
months  in  Rome  without  hardly  having  seen  a  Roman, 
busy,  observing  the  little  clan  which  is  so  revolting  to 
you.  It  is  probably  the  twentieth  I  have  studied,  and 
I  shall  no  douljt  study  twenty  more,  for  not  one  re- 
sembles another.     Are   you    indulgently    inclined   to- 

[30] 


COSMOPOLIS 

ward  me,  now  that  you  have  got  even  with  mc  in 
making  me  hold  forth  at  this  corner,  Hke  the  hero  of 
a  Russian  novel?    Well,  now  adieu." 

Montfanon  had  listened  to  the  discourse  with  an  in- 
penetrable  air.  In  the  religious  solitude  in  which  he 
was  awaiting  the  end,  as  he  said,  nothing  afforded 
him  greater  pleasure  than  the  discussion  of  ideas.  But 
he  was  inspired  by  the  enthusiasm  of  a  man  who 
feels  with  extreme  ardor,  and  when  he  was  met  by  the 
partly  ironical  dilettanteism  of  Dorsenne  he  was  almost 
pained  by  it,  so  much  the  more  so  as  the  author  and  he 
had  some  common  theories,  notably  an  extreme  fancy 
for  heredity  and  race.  A  sort  of  discontented  grimace 
distorted  his  expressive  face.  He  clicked  his  tongue 
in  ill-humor,  and  said: 

"One  more  question!  .  .  .  And  the  result  of  all 
that,  the  object?  To  what  end  does  all  this  observa- 
tion lead  you?" 

"To  what  should  it  lead  me?  To  comprehend,  as 
I  have  told  you,"  replied  Dorsenne. 

"And  then?" 

"There  is  no  then,'^  answered  the  young  man,  "one 
debauchery  is  like  another." 

"But  among  the  people  whom  you  see  living  thus," 
said  Montfanon,  after  a  pause,  "there  arc  some  surely 
whom  you  like  and  whom  you  dislike,  for  whom  you 
entertain  esteem  and  for  whom  you  feel  contempt? 
Have  you  not  thought  that  you  have  some  duties  to- 
ward them,  that  you  can  aid  them  in  leading  better 
lives?" 

"That,"  said  Dorsenne,  "is  another  subject  which 

[31J 


PAUL  BOURGET 

we  will  treat  of  some  other  day,  for  I  am  afraid  now 
of  being  late.  .  .  .  Adieu." 

"Adieu, "said  the  Marquis,  with  evident  regret  at 
parting.  Then,  brusquely:  "I  do  not  know  why  I 
like  you  so  much,  for  in  the  main  you  incarnate 
one  of  those  vices  of  mind  which  inspire  me  with  the 
most  horror,  that  dilettanteism  set  in  vogue  by  the  dis- 
ciples of  Monsieur  Renan,  and  which  is  the  very  foun- 
dation of  the  decline.  You  will  recover  from  it,  I  hope. 
You  are  so  young!"  Then  becoming  again  jovial  and 
mocking:  "May  you  enjoy  yourself  in  your  descent 
of  Courtille;  I  almost  forgot  that  I  had  a  message  to 
give  to  you  for  one  of  the  supernumeraries  of  your 
troop.  Will  you  tell  Gorka  that  I  have  dislodged  the 
book  for  which  he  asked  me  before  his  departure?" 

"Gorka,"  rephed  Julien,  "has  been  in  Poland  three 
months  on  family  business.  I  just  told  you  how  that 
trip  cost  him  his  mistress." 

"What,"  said  Montfanon,  "in  Poland?  I  saw 
him  this  morning  as  plainly  as  I  see  you.  He  passed 
the  Fountain  du  Triton  in  a  cab.  If  I  had  not  been  in 
such  haste  to  reach  Ribalta's  in  time  to  save  the  Mont- 
luc,  I  could  have  stopped  him,  but  we  were  both  in 
too  great  a  hurry." 

"You  are  sure  that  Gorka  is  in  Rome — Boleslas 
Gorka?"     insisted  Dorsennc. 

"What  is  there  surprising  in  that?"  said  Montfanon. 
"It  is  quite  natural  that  he  should  not  wish  to  remain 
away  long  from  a  city  where  he  has  left  a  wife  and  a 
mistress.  I  suppose  your  Slav  and  your  Anglo-Saxon 
have  no  prejudices,  and  that  they  share  their  Venetian 

[32] 


COSMOPOLIS 

with  a  dilettanteism  quite  modern.  It  is  cosmopolitan, 
indeed.  .  .  .  Well,  once  more,  adieu.  .  .  .  Deliver  my 
message  to  him  if  you  see  him,  and, "  his  face  again  ex- 
pressed a  childish  malice,  "do  not  fail  to  tell  Made- 
moiselle Hafner  that  her  father's  daughter  will  never, 
never  have  this  volume.  It  is  not  for  intriguers!" 
And,  laughing  Hke  a  mischievous  schoolboy,  he  pressed 
the  book  more  tightly  under  his  arm,  repeating:  "She 
shall  not  have  it.  Listen.  .  .  .  And  tell  her  plainly. 
She  shall  not  have  it!" 


[33] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   BEGINNING   OF   A   DRAMA 

HERE  is  an  intelligent  man,  who  never 
questions  his  ideas,"  said  Dorsenne 
to  himself,  when  the  Marquis  had 
left  him.  ''He  is  hke  the  Socialists. 
What  vigor  of  mind  in  that  old  worn- 
out  machine!"  And  for  a  brief  mo- 
ment he  watched,  with  a  glance  in 
which  there  was  at  least  as  much  ad- 
miration as  pity,  the  Marquis,  who  was  -disappearing 
down  the  Rue  de  la  Propagande,  and  who  walked  at  the 
rapid  pace  characteristic  of  monomaniacs.  They  fol- 
low their  thoughts  instead  of  heeding  objects.  How- 
ever, the  care  he  exercised  in  avoiding  the  sun's  line 
for  the  shade  attested  the  instincts  of  an  old  Roman, 
who  knew  the  danger  of  the  first  rays  of  spring  beneath 
that  blue  sky.  For  a  moment  Montfanon  paused  to  give 
alms  to  one  of  the  numerous  mendicants  who  abound 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Place  d'Espagne,  meri- 
torious in  him,  for  with  his  one  arm  and  burdened 
with  the  prayer-book  it  required  a  veritable  effort  to 
search  in  his  pocket.  Dor.sennc  was  well  enough  ac- 
c|uainted  with  that  original  personage  to  know  that  he 
had  never  been  able  to  say  "no"  to  any  one  who  asked 
charity,  great  or  small,  of  him.     Thanks  to  that  .sys- 

[  34  J 


COSMOPOLIS 

tern,  the  enemy  of  beautiful  Fanny  Hafner  was  always 
short  of  cash  with  forty  thousand  francs'  income  and 
leading  a  simple  existence.  The  costly  purchase  of 
the  relic  of  Montluc  proved  that  the  antipathy  con- 
ceived for  Baron  Justus's  charming  daughter  had  be- 
come a  species  of  passion.  Under  any  other  circum- 
stances, the  novelist,  who  delighted  in  such  cases,  would 
not  have  failed  to  meditate  ironically  on  that  feeling, 
easy  enough  of  explanation.  There  was  much  more 
irrational  instinct  in  it  than  jMontfanon  himself  sus- 
pected. The  old  leaguer  would  not  have  been  logical 
if  he  had  not  had  in  point  of  race  an  inquisition  par- 
tiality, and  the  mere  suspicion  of  Jewish  origin  should 
have  prejudiced  him  against  Fanny.  But  he  was  just, 
as  Dorsenne  had  told  him,  and  if  the  young  girl  had 
been  an  avowed  Jewess,  living  up  zealously  to  her 
religion,  he  would  have  respected  but  have  avoided 
her,  and  he  never  would  have  spoken  of  her  with  such 
bitterness. 

The  true  motive  of  his  antipathy  was  that  he  loved 
Cardinal  Guerillot,  as  was  his  habit  in  all  things,  with 
passion  and  with  jealousy,  and  he  could  not  forgive 
Mademoiselle  Hafner  for  having  formed  an  intimacy 
with  the  holy  prelate  in  spite  of  him,  Montfanon,  who 
had  vainly  warned  the  old  Bishop  de  Clermont  against 
her  whom  he  considered  the  most  wily  of  intriguers. 
For  months  vainly  did  she  furnish  proofs  of  her  sin- 
cerity of  heart,  the  Cardinal  reporting  them  in  due  sea- 
son to  the  Marquis,  who  persisted  in  discrediting  them, 
and  each  fresh  good  deed  of  his  enemy  augmented  his 
hatred  by  aggravating  the  uneasiness  which  was  caused 

[35] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

him,  notwithstanding  all,  by  a  vague  sense  of  his  in- 
iquity. 

But  Dorsenne  no  sooner  turned  toward  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Palais  Castagna  than  he  quickly  forgot  both 
Mademoiselle  Hafner's  and  Montfanon's  prejudices, 
in  thinking  only  of  one  sentence  uttered  by  the  latter — 
that  which  related  to  the  return  of  Boleslas  Gorka. 
The  news  was  unexpected,  and  it  awakened  in  the 
writer  such  grave  fears  that  he  did  not  even  glance  at 
the  shop-window  of  the  French  bookseller  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  Corso  to  see  if  the  label  of  the  "Fortieth 
thousand"  flamed  upon  the  yellow  cover  of  his  last 
book,  the  Eclogue  Mondaine,  brought  out  in  the  autumn, 
with  a  success  which  his  absence  of  six  months  from 
Paris,  had,  however,  detracted  from.  He  did  not  even 
think  of  ascertaining  if  the  regimen  he  practised,  in  imi- 
tation of  Lord  Byron,  against  embonpoint,  would  pre- 
serve his  elegant  form,  of  which  he  was  so  proud,  and 
yet  mirrors  were  numerous  on  the  way  from  the  Place 
d'Espagne  to  the  Palais  Castagna,  which  rears  its  som- 
bre mass  on  the  margin  of  the  Tiber,  at  the  extremity 
of  the  Via  Giulia,  like  a  pendant  of  the  Palais  Sacchctti, 
the  masterwork  of  Sangallo.  Dorsenne  did  not  indulge 
in  Ills  usual  pastime  of  examining  the  souvenirs  along 
the  streets  which  met  his  eye,  and  yet  he  passed  in  the 
twenty  minutes  whicli  it  took  him  to  reach  his  rendez- 
vous a  number  of  buildings  teeming  with  centuries  of 
historical  reminiscences.  There  was  first  of  all  the 
vast  Palais  Borghese  — the  piano  of  the  Borghcse,  as 
it  has  been  called,  from  the  form  of  a  clavecin  adopted 
by  the  architect — a  monument  of  splendor,  which  was, 

[36J 


COSMOPOLIS 

less  than  two  years  later,  to  serve  as  the  scene  of  a  sit- 
uation more  melancholy  than  that  of  the  Palais  Cas- 
tagna. 

Dorsenne  had  not  an  absent  glance  for  the  sump- 
tuous building — he  passed  unheeding  the  facade  of 
St.-Louis,  the  object  of  Montfanon's  admiration.  If 
the  writer  did  not  profess  for  that  relic  of  ancient  France 
the  piety  of  the  Marquis,  he  never  failed  to  enter  there 
to  pay  his  literary  respects  to  the  tomb  of  Madame  de 
Beaumont,  to  that  quia  non  sunt  of  an  epitaph  which 
Chateaubriand  inscribed  upon  her  tombstone,  with 
more  vanity,  alas,  than  tenderness.  For  the  first  time 
Dorsenne  forgot  it;  he  forgot  also  to  gaze  with  delight 
upon  the  rococo  fountain  on  the  Place  Navonne,  that 
square  upon  which  Domitian  had  his  circus,  and  which 
recalls  the  cruel  pageantries  of  imperial  Rome.  He 
forgot,  too,  the  mutilated  statue  which  forms  the  angle 
of  the  Palais  Braschi,  two  paces  farther — two  paces 
still  farther,  the  grand  artery  of  the  Corso  Victor- 
Emmanuel  demonstrated  the  effort  at  regeneration  of 
present  Rome;  two  paces  farther  yet,  the  Palais  Far- 
nese  recalls  the  grandeur  of  modern  art,  and  the  tragedy 
of  contemporary  monarchies.  Does  not  the  thought 
of  Michelangelo  seem  to  be  still  imprinted  on  the  som- 
bre cross-beam  of  that'  immense  sarcophagus,  which 
was  the  refuge  of  the  last  King  of  Naples?  But  it 
requires  a  mind  entirely  free  to  give  one's  self  up  to  the 
charm  of  historical  dilettanteism  which  cities  built  upon 
the  past  conjure  up,  and  although  Julien  prided  him- 
self, not  without  reason,  on  being  above  emotion,  he 
was  not  possessed  of  his  usual  independence  of  mind 

[37] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

during  the  walk  which  took  him  to  his  "  human  mosaic, " 
as  he  picturesquely  expressed  it,  and  he  pondered  and 
repondered  the  following  questions: 

"Boleslas  Gorka  returned?  And  two  days  ago  I 
saw  his  wife,  who  did  not  expect  him  until  next  month. 
Montfanon  is  not,  however,  imaginative.  Boleslas 
Gorka  returned?  At  the  moment  when  Madame 
Steno  is  mad  over  Maitland — for  she  is  mad!  The 
night  before  last,  at  her  house  at  dinner,  she  looked  at 
him — it  was  scandalous.  Gorka  had  a  presentiment 
of  it  this  winter.  When  the  American  attempted  to 
take  Alba's  portrait  the  first  time,  the  Pole  put  a  stop 
to  it.  It  was  fine  for  Montfanon  to  talk  of  division 
between  these  two  men.  When  Boleslas  left  here, 
Maitland   and   the   Countess  were  barely  acquainted 

and  now If  he  has  returned  it  is  because  he  has 

discovered  that  he  has  a  rival.  Some  one  has  warned 
him — an  enemy  of  the  Countess,  a  confrere  of  Mait- 
land. Such  pieces  of  infamy  occur  among  good 
friends.  If  Gorka,  who  is  a  shot  like  Casal,  kills  Mait- 
land in  a  duel,  it  will  make  one  deceiver  less.  If  he 
avenges  himself  upon  his  mistress  for  that  treason,  it 
would  be  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me,  for  Catherine 
Steno  is  a  great  rogue.  .  .  .  But  my  little  friend,  my 
poor,  charming  Alba,  what  would  become  of  her  if 
there  should  be  a  scandal,  bloodshed,  perhaps,  on  ac- 
count of  her  mother's  folly?  Gorka  returned?  And 
he  did  not  write  it  to  me,  to  me  who  have  received 
.several  letters  from  him  since  he  went  away;  to  me, 
whom  he  .selected  last  autumn  as  the  confidant  of  his 
jealousies,  under  the  pretext  that  I  knew  women,  and, 

[38] 


COSMOPOLIS 

with  the  vain  hope  of  inspiring  me.  .  .  .  His  silence 
and  return  no  longer  seem  Hke  a  romance;  they  savor 
rather  of  a  drama,  and  with  a  Slav,  as  much  a  Slav  as 
he  is,  one  may  expect  anything.  I  know  not  what  to 
think  of  it,  for  he  will  be  at  the  Palais  Castagna.  Poor, 
charming  Alba!" 

The  monologue  did  not  differ  much  from  a  mono- 
logue uttered  under  similar  circumstances  by  any 
young  man  interested  in  a  young  girl  whose  mother 
does  not  conduct  herself  becomingly.  It  was  a  touch- 
ing situation,  but  a  very  common  one,  and  there  was 
no  necessity  for  the  author  to  come  to  Rome  to  study 
it,  one  entire  winter  and  spring.  If  that  interest  went 
beyond  a  study,  Dorsenne  possessed  a  very  simple 
means  of  preventing  his  little  friend,  as  he  said,  from 
being  rendered  unhappy  by  the  conduct  of  that  mother 
whom  age  did  not  conquer.  Why  not  propose  for 
her  hand?  He  had  inherited  a  fortune,  and  his  suc- 
cess as  an  author  had  augmented  it.  For,  since  the 
first  book  which  had  established  his  reputation,  the 
Etudes  de  Femmes,  published  in  1879,  not  a  single  one 
of  the  fifteen  novels  or  selections  from  novels  had 
remained  unnoticed.  His  personal  celebrity  could, 
strictly  speaking,  combine  with  it  family  celebrity,  for 
he  boasted  that  his  grandfather  was  a  cousin  of  that 
brave  General  Dorsenne  whom  Napoleon  could  only 
replace  at  the  head  of  his  guard  by  Friant.  All  can  be 
told  in  a  word.  Although  the  heirs  of  the  hero  of  the 
Empire  had  never  recognized  the  relationship,  Julien 
believed  in  it,  and  when  he  said,  in  reply  to  compliments 
on  his  books,  "At  my  age  my  grand-uncle,  the  Colonel 

[39] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

of  the  Guard,  did  greater  things,"  he  was  sincere  in 
his  behef.  But  it  was  unnecessary  to  mention  it,  for, 
situated  as  he  was.  Countess  Steno  would  gladly  have 
accepted  him  as  a  son-in-law.  As  for  gaining  the  love 
of  the  young  girl,  with  his  handsome  face,  intelhgent 
and  refined,  and  his  elegant  form,  which  he  had  re- 
tained intact  in  spite  of  his  thirty-seven  years,  he  might 
have  done  so.  Nothing,  however,  was  farther  from 
his  thoughts  than  such  a  project,  for,  as  he  ascended 
the  steps  of  the  staircase  of  the  palace  formerly  oc- 
cupied by  Urban  VII,  he  continued,  in  very  different 
terms,  his  monologue,  a  species  of  involuntary  "copy" 
which  is  written  instinctively  in  the  brain  of  the  man 
of  letters  when  he  is  particularly  fond  of  literature. 

At  times  it  assumes  a  written  form,  and  it  is  the 
most  marked  of  professional  distortions,  tlie  most  un- 
intelligible to  the  illiterate,  who  think  waveringly  and 
who  do  not,  happily  for  them,  suffer  the  continual  ser- 
vitude to  precision  of  word  and  to  too  conscientious 
thought. 

"Yes;  poor,  charming  Alba!"  he  repeated  to  himself. 
"How  unfortunate  that  the  marriage  with  Countess 
Gorka's  brother  could  not  have  been  arranged  four 
months  ago.  Connection  with  the  family  of  her  moth- 
er's lover  would  be  tolerably  immoral!  But  she  would 
at  least  have  had  less  chance  of  ever  knowing  it;  and 
the  convenient  combination  by  which  the  mother  has 
caused  her  to  form  a  friendshi])  with  that  wife  in  order 
the  better  to  blind  the  two,  would  have  bordered  a 
little  more  on  proi)riety.  To-day  Alba  would  be  Lady 
Ardrahan,  leading  a  prosaic  iMiglish  life,  instead  of  be- 

[40]    " 


COSMOPOLIS 

ing  united  to  some  imbecile  whom  they  will  find  for 
her  here  or  elsewhere.  She  will  then  deceive  him  as 
her  mother  deceived  the  late  Steno — with  mc,  perhaps, 
in  remembrance  of  our  pure  intimacy  of  to-day.  That 
would  be  too  sad!  Do  not  let  us  think  of  it!  It  is 
the  future,  of  the  existence  of  which  we  are  ignorant, 
while  we  do  know  that  the  present  exists  and  that  it 
has  all  rights.  I  owe  to  the  Contessina  my  best  im- 
pressions of  Rome,  to  the  vision  of  her  loveliness  in 
this  scene  of  so  grand  a  past.  And  this  is  a  sensation 
which  is  enjoyable;  to  visit  the  Palais  Castagna'with 
the  adorable  creature  upon  whom  rests  the  menace  of 
a  drama.  To  enjoy  the  Countess  Steno's  kindness, 
otherwise  the  house  would  not  have  that  tone  and  I 
would  never  have  obtained  the  little  one's  friendship. 
To  rejoice  that  Ardea  is  a  fool,  that  he  has  lost  his  for- 
tune on  the  Bourse,  and  that  the  syndicate  of  his  cred- 
itors, presided  over  by  Monsieur  Ancona,  has  laid 
hands  upon  his  palace.  For,  otherwise,  I  should  not 
have  ascended  the  steps  of  this  papal  staircase,  nor 
have  seen  this  debris  of  Grecian  sarcophagi  fitted  into 
the  walls,  and  this  garden  of  so  intense  a  green.  As 
for  Gorka,  he  may  have  returned  for  thirty-six  other 
reasons  than  jealousy,  and  Montfanon  is  right:  Cat- 
erina  is  cunning  enough  to  inveigle  both  the  painter 
and  him.  She  will  make  Maitland  believe  that  she 
received  Gorka  for  the  sake  of  Madame  Gorka,  and 
to  prevent  him  from  ruining  that  excellent  woman  at 
gaming.  She  will  tell  Boleslas  that  there  was  nothing 
more  between  her  and  Maitland  than  Platonic  dis- 
cussions on  the  merits  of  Raphael  and  Perugino.  .  .  . 

[41] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

And  I  should  be  more  of  a  dupe  than  the  other  two  for 
missing  the  visit.  It  is  not  every  day  that  one  has  a 
chance  to  see  auctioned,  hke  a  simple  Bohemian,  the 
grand-nephew  of  a  pope." 

The  second  suite  of  reflections  resembled  more  than 
the  first  the  real  Dorsenne,  who  was  often  incompre- 
hensible even  to  his  best  friends.  The  young  man  with 
the  large,  black  eyes,  the  face  with  delicate  features, 
the  olive  complexion  of  a  Spanish  monk,  had  never 
had  but  one  passion,  too  exceptional  not  to  baffle  the 
ordinary  observer,  and  developed  in  a  sense  so  singular 
that  to  the  most  charitable  it  assumed  either  an  atti- 
tude almost  outrageous  or  else  that  of  an  abominable 
egotism  and  profound  corruption. 

Dorsenne  had  spoken  truly,  he  loved  to  comprehend 
— to  comprehend  as  the  gamester  loves  to  game,  the 
miser  to  accumulate  money,  the  ambitious  to  obtain 
position — there  was  within  him  that  .appetite,  that 
taste,  that  mania  for  ideas  which  makes  the  scholar 
and  the  philosopher.  But  a  philosopher  united  by  a 
caprice  of  nature  to  an  artist,  and  by  that  of  fortune 
and  (jf  education  to  a  worklly  man  and  a  traveller. 
The  abstract  speculations  of  tlie  metaphysician  would 
not  have  sufficed  for  liim,  nor  woukl  the  continuous 
and  simple  creation  of  the  narrator  who  narrates  to 
amuse  himself,  nor  would  the  ardor  of  the  semi-animal 
of  the  man-of-pleasure  who  abandons  himself  to  the 
frenzy  of  vice.  He  invented  for  himself,  partly  from 
instinct,  partly  from  method,  a  compromise  between 
his  contrach'ctor}^  tendencies,  which  he  formulated  in  a 
fashion  sHghtly  jK'dantic,  when  he  said  that  his  sole 

[42I 


COSMOPOLIS 

aim  was  to  " intellectualize  the  forcible  sensations;" 
in  clearer  terms,  he  dreamed  of  meeting  with,  in  hu- 
man life,  the  greatest  number  of  impressions  it  could 
give  and  to  think  of  them  after  having  met  them. 

He  thought,  with  or  without  reason,  to  discover  in  his 
two  favorite  writers,  Goethe  and  Stendhal,  a  constant 
application  of  a  similar  principle.  His  studies  had, 
for  the  past  fourteen  years  when  he  had  begun  to  live 
and  to  write,  passed  through  the  most  varied  spheres 
possible  to  him.  But  he  had  passed  through  them, 
lending  his  presence  without  giving  himself  to  them, 
with  this  idea  always  present  in  his  mind :  that  he  ex- 
isted to  become  familiar  with  other  customs,  to  watch 
other  characters,  to  clothe  other  personages  and  the 
sensations  which  vibrated  within  them.  The  period 
of  his  revival  was  marked  by  the  achievement  of  each 
one  of  his  books  which  he  composed  then,  persuaded 
that,  once  written  and  construed,  a  sentimental  or  social 
experience  was  not  worth  the  trouble  of  being  dwelt 
upon.  Thus  is  explained  the  incoherence  of  custom 
and  the  atmospheric  contact,  if  one  may  so  express  it, 
which  are  the  characteristics  of  his  work.  Take,  for 
example,  his  first  collection  of  novels,  the  Etudes  de 
Femmes,  which  made  him  famous.  They  are  about 
a  sentimental  woman  who  loved  unwisely,  and  who 
spent  hours  from  excess  of  the  romantic  studying  the 
avowed  or  disguised  demi-monde.  By  the  side  of  that, 
Sans  Dieu,  the  story  of  a  drama  of  scientific  conscious- 
ness, attests  a  continuous  frequenting  of  the  Museum, 
the  Sorbonne  and  the  College  of  France,  while  Monsieur 
le  Premier  presents  one  of  the  most  striking  pictures 

[43] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

of  the  contemporary  political  world,  which  could  only 
have  been  traced  by  a  familiar  of  the  Palais  Bourbon. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  three  books  of  travel  pre- 
tentiously named  Tourisime,  Les  Profits  d^ Etrangeres 
and  the  Eclogue  Mondaine,  which  fluctuated  between 
Florence  and  London,  St.-Moritz  and  Bayreuth,  re- 
vealed long  sojourns  out  of  France;  a  clever  analysis 
of  the  Italian,  English,  and  German  worlds;  a  super- 
ficial but  true  knowledge  of  the  languages,  the  history 
and  literature,  which  in  no  way  accords  with  Podor  di 
jemina,  exhale  from  every  page.  These  contrasts  are 
brought  out  by  a  mind  endowed  with  strangely  com- 
plex qualities,  dominated  by  a  firm  will  and,  it  must 
be  said,  a  very  mediocre  sensibility.  The  last  point 
will  appear  irreconcilable  with  the  extreme  and  almost 
morbid  delicacy  of  certain  of  Dorsenne's  works.  It  is 
thus  however.  He  had  very  little  heart.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  had  an  abundance  of  nerves  and  nerves, 
and  their  irritability  suffice  for  him  who  desires  to 
paint  human  passions,  above  all,  love,  with  its  joys  and 
its  sorrows,  of  which  one  does  not  speak  to  a  certain 
extent  when  one  experiences  them.  Success  had  come 
to  Julien  too  early  not  to  have  afi"orded  him  occasion 
for  several  adventures.  In  each  of  the  centres  traversed 
in  the  course  of  his  sentimental  vagabondage  he  tried 
to  find  a  woman  in  whom  was  embodied  all  the 
.scattered  charms  of  the  district.  He  had  formed  in- 
numerable intimacies.  Some  had  been  frankly  affec- 
tionate. The  majority  were  Platonic.  Others  had  con- 
.sisted  of  the  simj)l('  coquetry  of  friendship,  as  was  the 
case  with  Mademoiselle  Steno.     The  young  man  had 

[44j 


COSMOPOLIS 

never  employed  more  vanity  than  enthusiasm.  Every 
woman,  mistress  or  friend,  had  been  to  him,  nine 
times  out  of  ten,  a  curiosity,  then  a  model.  But  as  he 
held  that  the  model  could  not  be  recognized  by  any  ex- 
terior sign,  he  did  not  think  that  he  was  wrong  in  mak- 
ing use  of  his  prestige  as  a  writer,  for  what  he  called 
his  "culture."  He  was  capable  of  justice,  the  defense 
which  he  made  of  Fanny  Hafner  to  Montfanon  proved 
it;  of  admiration,  his  respect  for  the  noble  qualities  of 
that  same  Montfanon  testify  to  it;  of  compassion,  for 
without  it  he  would  not  have  apprehended  at  once  with 
so  much  sympathy  the  result  which  the  return  of  Count 
Gorka  would  have  on  the  destiny  of  innocent  Alba 
Steno. 

On  reaching  the  staircase  of  the  Palais  Castagna,  in- 
stead of  hastening,  as  was  natural,  to  find  out  at  least 
what  meant  the  return  to  Rome  of  the  lover  whom  Ma- 
dame Steno  deceived,  he  collected  his  startled  sensibil- 
ities before  meeting  Alba,  and,  pausing,  he  scribbled  in  a 
note-book  which  he  drew  from  his  pocket,  with  a  pen- 
cil always  within  reach  of  his  fingers,  in  a  firm  hand, 
precise  and  clear,  this  note  savoring  somewhat  of  sen- 
timentalism : 

"25  April, '90.  Palais  Castagna.— Marvellous  stair- 
case constructed  by  Balthazar  Peruzzi,  so  broad  and 
long,  with  double  rows  of  stairs,  like  those  of  Santa 
Colomba,  near  Siena.  Enjoyed  above  all  the  sight 
of  an  interior  garden  so  arranged,  so  designed  that  the 
red  flowers,  the  regularity  of  the  green  shrubs,  the  neat 
lines  of  the  graveled  walks  resemble  the  features  of  a 
face.     The  idea  of  the  Latin  garden,  opposed  to  the 

[45] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

Germanic  or  Anglo-Saxon,  the  latter  respecting  the 
irregularity  of  nature,  the  other  all  in  order,  humaniz- 
ing and  administering  even  to  the  flower-garden. 

"Subject  the  complexity  of  life  to  a  thought  har- 
monious and  clear,  a  constant  mark  of  the  Latin  genus, 
for  a  group  of  trees  as  well  as  an  entire  nation,  an 
entire  religion — Catholicism.  It  is  the  contrary'  in  the 
races  of  the  North.  Significance  of  the  word :  the  for- 
ests have  taught  man  liberty." 

He  had  hardly  finished  wTiting  that  oddly  inter- 
preted memorandum,  and  w^as  closing  his  note-book, 
when  the  sound  of  a  famihar  voice  caused  him  to  turn 
suddenly.  He  had  not  heard  ascend  the  stairs  a  per- 
sonage who  waited  until  he  finished  writing,  and  who 
was  no  other  than  one  of  the  actors  in  his  "troupe" — 
to  use  his  expression,  one  of  the  persons  of  the  party 
of  that  morning  organized  the  day  before  at  Madame 
Steno's,  and  just  the  one  whom  the  intolerable  mar- 
quis had  defamed  with  so  much  ardor,  the  father  of 
beautiful  Fanny  Hafner,  Baron  Justus  himself.  The 
renowned  founder  of  the  Credit  Anstro-Dalmate  was  a 
small,  thin  man,  with  blue  eyes  of  an  acuteness  almost 
insupportable,  in  a  face  of  neutral  color.  His  ever- 
courteous  manner,  his  attire,  simple  and  neat,  his  speech 
serious  and  discreet,  gave  to  him  that  s})ecies  of  dis- 
tinction so  common  to  old  diplomatists.  But  the  dan- 
gerous adventurer  was  betrayed  by  the  glance  which 
Hafner  could  not  succeed  in  veiling  with  indifTerent 
amiability.  The  man-of-the-world,  which  he  prided 
himself  upon  having  become,  was  visible  through  all  by 
certain  indefinable  trifles,  and  above  all  by  those  eyes,  of 

[46] 


COSMOPOLIS 

a  restlessness  so  singular  in  so  wealthy  a  man,  indicating 
an  enigmatical  and  obscure  past  of  dark  and  contrasting 
struggles,  of  covetous  sharpness,  of  cold  calculation 
and  indomitable  energy.  Fanatical  Montfanon,  who 
abused  the  daughter  with  such  unjustness,  judged  the 
father  justly.  The  son  of  a  Jew  of  Berlin  and  of  a 
Dutch  Protestant,  Justus  Hafner  was  inscribed  on  the 
civil  state  registers  as  belonging  to  his  mother's  faith. 
But  the  latter  died  when  Justus  was  very  young,  and  he 
was  not  reared  in  any  other  liturgy  than  that  of  money. 
From  his  father,  a  persevering  and  skilful  jeweller,  but 
too  prudent  to  risk  or  gain  much,  he  learned  the  busi- 
ness of  precious  stones,  to  which  he  added  that  of  laces, 
paintings,  old  materials,  tapestries,  rare  furniture. 

An  infallible  eye,  the  patience  of  a  German  united 
with  his  Israelitish  and  Dutch  extraction,  soon  amassed 
for  him  a  small  capital,  which  his  father's  bequest 
augmented.  At  twenty-seven  Justus  had  not  less  than 
five  hundred  thousand  marks.  Two  imprudent  oper- 
ations on  the  Bourse,  enterprises  to  force  fortune  and 
to  obtain  the  first  milHon,  ruined  the  too-audacious 
courtier,  who  began  again  the  building  up  of  his  fort- 
une by  becoming  a  diamond  broker. 

He  went  to  Paris,  and  there,  in  a  wretched  little 
room  on  the  Rue  Montmartre,  in  three  years,  he  made 
his  second  capital.  He  then  managed  it  so  well  that 
in  1870,  at  the  time  of  the  war,  he  had  made  good  his 
losses.  The  armistice  found  him  in  England,  where 
he  had  married  the  daughter  of  a  Viennese  agent,  in 
London,  for  the  purpose  of  starting  a  vast  enterprise 
of  revictualing  the  belligerent  armies.     The  enormous 

^  [4/1 


PAUL  BOURGET 

profits  made  by  the  father-in-law  and  the  son-in-law 
during  that  year  determined  them  to  found  a  banking- 
house  which  should  have  its  principal  seat  in  Vienna 
and  a  branch  in  Berlin.  Justus  Hafner,  a  passionate 
admirer  of  Herr  von  Bismarck,  controlled,  besides,  a 
newspaper.  He  tried  to  gain  the  favor  of  the  great 
statesman,  who  refused  to  aid  the  former  diamond 
merchant  in  gratifying  political  ambitions  cherished 
from  an  early  age. 

It  was  a  bitter  disappointment  to  the  persevering 
man,  who,  having  tried  his  luck  in  Prussia,  emigrated 
definitively  to  Vienna.  The  establishment  of  the 
Credit  Austro-Dalmate,  launched  with  extraordinary 
claims,  permitted  him  at  length  to  realize  at  least  one 
of  his  chimeras.  His  wealth,  while  not  equaling  that 
of  the  mighty  financiers  of  the  epoch,  increased  with 
a  rapidity  almost  magical  to  a  cipher  high  enough  to 
permit  him,  from  1879,  to  indulge  in  the  luxurious  life 
which  can  not  be  led  by  any  one  with  an  income  short 
of  five  hundred  thousand  francs.  Contrary  to  the  cus- 
tom of  speculators  of  his  genus,  Hafner  in  time  invested 
his  earnings  safely.  He  provided  against  the  coming 
demolition  of  the  structure  so  laboriously  built  up. 
The  Credit  Austro-Dalmate  had  suffered  in  great  meas- 
ure owing  to  innumerable  public  and  private  disast- 
ers and  scandals,  such  as  the  suicide  and  murder  in 
the  Schroedcr  family. 

Suits  were  begun  against  a  number  of  the  founders, 
among  them  Justus  Hafner.  He  was  acquitted,  but 
with  such  damage  to  his  financial  integrity  and  in  the 
face  of  such  public  indignation  that  he  abandoned 

[48] 


COSMOPOLIS 

Austria  for  Italy  and  Vienna  for  Rome.  There,  heed- 
less of  first  rebuffs,  he  undertook  to  realize  the  third 
great  object  of  his  life,  the  gaining  of  social  position. 
To  the  period  of  avidity  had  succeeded,  as  it  frequent- 
ly does  with  those  formidable  handlers  of  money,  the 
period  of  vanity.  Being  now  a  widower,  he  aimed  at  his 
daughter's  marriage  with  a  strength  of  will  and  a  com- 
plication of  combinations  equal  to  his  former  efforts, 
and  that  struggle  for  connection  with  high  life  was  dis- 
guised beneath  the  cloak  of  the  most  systematically 
adopted  politeness  of  deportment.  How  had  he  found 
the  means,  in  the  midst  of  struggles  and  hardships,  to 
refine  himself  so  that  the  primitive  broker  and  specu- 
lator were  almost  unrecognizable  in  the  baron  of  fifty- 
four,  decorated  with  several  orders,  installed  in  a  mag- 
nificent palace,  the  father  of  a  charming  daughter, 
and  himself  an  agreeable  conversationalist,  a  courteous 
gentleman,  an  ardent  sportsman?  It  is  the  secret  of 
those  natures  created  for  social  conquest,  like  a  Na- 
poleon for  war  and  a  Talleyrand  for  diplomacy.  Dor- 
senne  asked  himself  the  question  frequently,  and  he 
could  not  solve  it.  Although  he  boasted  of  watching 
the  Baron  with  an  intellectual  curiosity,  he  could  not 
restrain  a  shudder  of  antipathy  each  time  he  met  the 
eyes  of  the  man. 

And  on  this  particular  morning  it  was  especially 
disagreeable  to  him  that  those  eyes  had  seen  him  mak- 
ing his  unoffending  notes,  although  there  was  scarcely 
a  shade  of  gentle  condescension — that  of  a  great  lord 
who  patronizes  a  great  artist — in  the  manner  in  which 
Hafner  addressed  him. 

4  [49] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"Do  not  inconvenience  yourself  for  me,  dear  sir," 
said  he  to  Dorsenne.  "You  work  from  nature,  and 
you  are  right.  I  sec  that  your  next  novel  will  touch 
upon  the  ruin  of  our  poor  Prince  d'Ardea.  Do  not  be 
too  hard  on  him,  nor  on  us." 

The  artist  could  not  help  coloring  at  that  benign 
pleasantry.  It  was  all  the  more  painful  to  him  because 
it  was  at  once  true  and  untrue.  How  should  he  explain 
the  sort  of  literary  alchemy,  thanks  to  which  he  was  en- 
abled to  affirm  that  he  never  drew  portraits,  although 
not  a  line  of  his  fifteen  volumes  was  traced  without  a 
living  model?  He  replied,  therefore,  with  a  touch  of 
ill-humor : 

"You  are  mistaken,  my  dear  Baron.  I  do  not  make 
notes  on  persons." 

"All  authors  say  that,"  answered  the  Baron,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders  with  the  assumed  good-nature  which 
so  rarely  forsook  him,  "and  they  are  right.  ...  At 
any  rate,  it  is  fortunate  that  you  had  something  to 
write,  for  we  shall  both  be  late  in  arriving  at  a  rendez- 
vous where  there  are  ladies.  ...  It  is  almost  a  quar- 
ter past  eleven,  and  wc  should  have  been  there  at  eleven 
precisely.  .  .  .  But  I  have  one  excuse,  I  waited  for 
my  daughter." 

"And  she  has  not  come?"  asked  Dorsenne. 

"No,"  replied  Hafncr,  "at  the  last  moment  she 
could  not  make  up  her  mind.  She  had  a  slight  annoy- 
ance this  morning — I  do  not  know  what  old  book  she 
had  .set  her  heart  on.  Some  rascal  found  out  that  she 
wanted  it,  and  he  obtained  it  first.  .  .  .  But  that  is 
not  the  true  cause  of  her  absence.     The  true  cause  is 

[50J 


COSMOPOLIS 

that  she  is  too  sensitive,  and  she  finds  it  so  sad  that 
there  should  be  a  sale  of  the  possessions  of  this  ancient 
family.  .  .  I  did  not  insist.  What  would  she  have 
experienced  had  she  known  the  late  Princess  Nicoletta, 
Pepino's  mother?  When  I  came  to  Rome  on  a  visit 
for  the  first  time,  in  '75,  what  a  salon  that  was  and 
what  a  Princess!  .  .  .  She  was  a  Condolmieri,  of  the 
family  of  Eugene  IV." 

''How  absurd  vanity  renders  the  most  refined  man," 
thought  Julien,  suiting  his  pace  to  the  Baron's.  "He 
would  have  me  believe  that  he  was  received  at  the 
house  of  that  woman  who  was  politically  the  blackest  of 
the  black,  the  most  difficult  to  please  in  the  recruiting  of 
her  salon.  .  .  .  Life  is  more  complex  than  the  Mont- 
fanons  even  know  of!  This  girl  feels  by  instinct  that 
which  the  chouan  of  a  marquis  feels  by  doctrine,  the 
absurdity  of  this  striving  after  nobility,  with  a  father 
who  forgets  the  broker  and  who  talks  of  the  popes  of 
the  Middle  Ages  as  of  a  trinket!  .  ,  .  While  we  are 
alone,  I  must  ask  this  old  fox  what  he  knows  of  Boleslas 
Gorka's  return.  He  is  the  confidant  of  Madame  Steno. 
He  should  be  informed  of  the  doings  and  whereabouts 
of  the  Pole." 

The  friendship  of  Baron  Hafner  for  the  Countess, 
whose  financial  adviser  he  was,  should  have  been  for 
Dorsenne  a  reason  for  avoiding  such  a  subject,  the  more 
so  as  he  was  convinced  of  the  man's  dislike  for  him. 
The  Baron  could,  by  a  single  word  perfidiously  repeated, 
injure  him  very  much  with  Alba's  mother.  But  the 
novelist,  similar  on  that  point  to  the  majority  of  profes- 
sional observers,  had  only  the  power  of  analysis  of  a  ret- 

[51] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

respective  order.  Never  had  his  keen  intelHgence 
served  him  to  avoid  one  of  those  slight  errors  of  con- 
versation which  are  important  mistakes  on  the  pitiful 
checker-board  of  life.  Happily  for  him,  he  cherished 
no  ambition  except  for  his  pleasure  and  his  art,  with- 
out which  he  would  have  found  the  means  of  making 
for  himself,  gratuitously,  enough  enemies  to  clear  all 
the  academies. 

He,  therefore,  chose  the  moment  when  the  Baron 
arrived  at  the  landing  on  the  first  floor,  pausing  some- 
what out  of  breath,  and  after  the  agent  had  verified 
their  passes,  to  say  to  his  companion: 

''Have  you  seen  Gorka  since  his  arrival?" 

"What?  Is  Boleslas  here?"  asked  Justus  Hafner, 
who  manifested  his  astonishment  in  no  other  manner 
than  by  adding:   "I  thought  he  was  still  in  Poland." 

"I  have  not  seen  him  myself,"  said  Dorsenne.  He 
already  regretted  having  spoken  too  hastily.  It  is 
always  more  prudent  not  to  spread  the  first  report. 
But  the  ignorance  of  that  return  of  Countess  Steno's 
best  friend,  who  saw  her  daily,  struck  the  young  man 
with  such  surprise  that  he  could  not  resist  adding: 
"Some  one,  whose  veracity  I  can  not  doubt,  met  him 
this  morning."  Then,  brusquely:  "Does  not  this 
sudden  return  make  you  fearful  ?" 

"Fearful?"  repeated  the  Baron.  "Why  so?"  As 
he  uttered  those  words  he  glanced  at  the  writer  with 
his  usual  impassive  expression,  which,  however,  a  very 
slight  sign,  significant  to  those  who  knew  him,  belied. 
In  exchanging  those  few  words  the  two  men  had  passed 
into  the  first  room  of  "objects  of  art,"  having  belonged 

[52] 


COSMOPOLIS 

to  the  apartment  of  "His  Eminence  Prince  d'Ardea, " 
as  the  catalogue  said,  and  the  Baron  did  not  raise  the 
gold  glass  which  he  held  at  the  end  of  his  nose  when 
near  the  smallest  display  of  bric-a-brac,  as  was  his 
custom.  As  he  walked  slowly  through  the  collection 
of  busts  and  statues  of  that  first  room,  called  "Mar- 
bles" on  the  catalogue,  without  glancing  with  the  eye 
of  a  practised  judge  at  the  Gobelin  tapestry  upon  the 
walls,  it  must  have  been  that  he  considered  as  very 
grave  the  novelist's  revelation.  The  latter  had  said  too 
much  not  to  continue: 

"Well,  I  who  have  not  been  connected  with  Madame 
Steno  for  years,  like  you,  trembled  for  her  when  that 
return  was  announced  to  me.  She  does  not  know 
what  Gorka  is  when  he  is  jealous,  or  of  what  he  is 
capable." 

"Jealous?  Of  whom?"  interrupted  Hafner.  "It  is 
not  the  first  time  I  have  heard  the  name  of  Boleslas 
uttered  in  connection  with  the  Countess.  I  confess  I 
have  never  taken  those  words  seriously,  and  I  should 
not  have  thought  that  you,  a  frequenter  of  her  salon, 
one  of  her  friends,  would  hesitate  on  that  subject. 
Rest  assured,  Gorka  is  in  love  with  his  charming  wife, 
and  he  could  not  make  a  better  choice.  Countess 
Caterina  is  an  excellent  person,  very  Italian.  She  is 
interested  in  him,  as  in  you,  as  in  Maitland,  as  in  me; 
in  you  because  you  write  such  admirable  books,  in 
Maitland  because  he  paints  like  our  best  masters,  in 
Boleslas  on  account  of  the  sorrow  he  had  in  the  death 
of  his  first  child,  in  me  because  I  have  so  delicate  a 
charge.     She  is  more  than  an  excellent  person,  she  is 

[53] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

a  truly  superior  woman,  very  superior."  He  uttered 
his  hypocritical  speech  with  such  perfect  ease  that 
Dorsenne  was  surprised  and  irritated.  That  Hafner 
did  not  believe  one  treacherous  word  of  what  he  said 
the  novelist  was  sure,  he  who,  from  the  indiscreet  con- 
fidences of  Gorka,  knew  what  to  think  of  the  Venetian's 
manner,  and  he,  too,  understood  the  Baron's  glance! 
At  any  other  time  he  would  have  admired  the  policy 
of  the  old  stager.  At  that  moment  the  novelist  was 
vexed  by  it,  for  it  caused  him  to  play  a  role,  very  com- 
mon but  not  very  elevating,  that  of  a  calumniator, 
who  has  spoken  ill  of  a  woman  with  whom  he  dined 
the  day  before.  He,  therefore,  quickened  his  pace  as 
much  as  politeness  would  permit,  in  order  not  to  re- 
main tete-a-tete  with  the  Baron,  and  also  Jo  rejoin  the 
persons  of  their  party  already  arrived. 

They  emerged  from  the  first  room  to  enter  a  second, 
marked  "Porcelain;"  then  a  third,  "Frescoes  of  Perino 
del  Vaga, "  on  account  of  the  ceiling  upon  which  the 
master  painted  a  companion  to  his  vigorous  piece  at 
Genoa — "Jupiter  crushing  the  Giants" — and,  lastly, 
into  a  fourth,  called  "The  Arazzi, "  from  the  wonderful 
panels  with  which  it  was  decorated. 

A  few  visitors  were  lounging  there,  for  the  season 
was  somewhat  advanced,  and  the  date  which  M.  An- 
cona  had  chosen  for  the  execution  proved  either  the 
calculation  of  profound  hatred  or  else  the  adroit  ruse  of 
a  .syndicate  of  retailers.  All  the  magnificent  objects  in 
the  palace  were  adjudged  at  half  the  value  they  would 
have  brought  a  few  months  sooner  or  later.  The 
small  grouf)  of  curios  stood  out  in  contrast  to  the  pro- 

[54  J 


COSMOPOLIS 

fusion  of  furniture,  materials,  objects  of  art  of  all  kinds, 
which  filled  the  vast  rooms.  It  was  the  residence  of 
five  hundred  years  of  power  and  of  luxury,  where  mas- 
terpieces, worthy  of  the  great  Medicis,  and  executed  in 
their  time,  alternated  with  the  gewgaws  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  and  bronzes  of  the  First  Empire,  with 
silver  trinkets  ordered  but  yesterday  in  London.  Baron 
Justus  could  not  resist  these.  He  raised  his  glass  and 
called  Dorsenne  to  show  him  a  curious  armchair,  the 
carving  of  a  cartel,  the  embroidery  on  some  material. 
One  glance  sufficed  for  him  to  judge.  ...  If  the  nov- 
elist had  been  capable  of  observing,  he  would  have 
perceived  in  the  detailed  knowledge  the  banker  had 
of  the  catalogue  the  trace  of  a  study  too  deep  not  to 
accord  with  some  mysterious  project. 

"There  are  treasures  here,"  said  he.  "See  these 
two  Chinese  vases  with  convex  lids,  with  the  orange 
ground  decorated  with  gilding.  Those  are  pieces  no 
longer  made  in  China.  It  is  a  lost  art.  And  this 
tete-a-tete  decorated  with  flowers ;  and  this  pluvial  cope 
in  this  case.  What  a  marvel !  It  is  as  good  as  the  one 
of  Pius  Second,  which  was  at  Pienza  and  which  has 
been  stolen.  I  could  have  bought  it  at  one  time  for 
fifteen  hundred  francs.  It  is  worth  fifteen  thousand, 
twenty  thousand,  all  of  that.  Here  is  some  faience.  It 
was  brought  from  Spain  when  Cardinal  Castagna  came 
from  Madrid,  when  he  took  the  place  of  Pius  Fifth 
as  sponsor  of  Infanta  Isabella.  (Kh,  what  treasures! 
But  you  go  like  the  wind,"  he  added,  "and  perhaps 
it  is  better,  for  I  would  stop,  and  Cavalier  Fossati,  the 
auctioneer,  to  whom  those  terrible  creditors  of  Pep- 

[55] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

pino  have  given  charge  of  the  sale,  has  spies  everywhere. 
You  notice  an  object,  you  are  marked  as  a  solid  man, 
as  they  say  in  Germany.  You  are  noted.  I  shall  be 
down  on  his  list.  I  have  been  caught  by  him  enough. 
Ha!  He  is  a  very  shrewd  man!  But  come,  I  see 
the  ladies.  We  should  have  remembered  that  they 
were  here,"  and  smiling — but  at  whom? — at  Fossati, 
at  himself  or  his  companion  ? — he  made  the  latter  read 
the  notice  hung  on  the  door  of  a  transversal  room, 
which  bore  this  inscription:  "Salon  of  marriage- 
chests." 

There  were,  indeed,  ranged  along  the  walls  about  fif- 
teen of  those  wooden  cases  painted  and  carved,  of  those 
cassoni  in  which  it  was  the  fashion,  in  grand  Italian 
families,  to  keep  the  trousseaux  destined  for  the  brides. 
Those  of  the  Castagnas  proved,  by  their  escutcheons, 
what  alliances  the  last  of  the  grand-nephews  of  Urban 
VII,  the  actual  Prince  d'Ardea,  entered  into.  Three 
very  elegant  ladies  were  examining  the  chests;  in  them 
Dorsenne  recognized  at  once  fair  and  delicate  Alba 
Steno,  Madame  Gorka,  with  her  tall  form,  her  fair  hair, 
too,  and  her  strong  English  profile,  and  pretty  Madame 
Maitland,  with  her  olive  complexion,  who  did  not  seem 
to  have  inherited  any  more  negro  blood  than  just 
enough  to  tint  her  delicate  face.  Florent  Chapron, 
the  painter's  brother-in-law,  was  the  only  man  with 
those  three  ladies.  Countess  Steno  and  Lincoln  Mait- 
kind  were  nol  there,  and  one  could  hear  the  musical 
voice  of  Alba  spelling  the  heraldry  carved  on  the  cof- 
fers, formerly  of)ened  with  tender  curiosity  by  young 
girls,  laughing  and  dreaming  by  turns  like  her. 

[56] 


COSMOrOLIS 

"Look,  Maud,"  said  she  to  Madame  Gorka,  "there 
is  the  oak  of  the  Delia  Rovere,  and  there  the  stars  of 
the  Altieri." 

"And  I  have  found  the  column  of  the  Colonna, " 
replied  Maud  Gorka. 

"And  you,  Lydia?"  said  Mademoiselle  Steno  to 
Madame  Maitland. 

"And  I,  the  bees  of  the  Barberini." 

"And  I,  the  lilies  of  the  Farnese, "  said  in  his  turn 
Florent  Chapron,  who,  having  raised  his  head  first, 
perceived  the  newcomers.  He  greeted  them  with  a 
pleasant  smile,  which  was  reflected  in  his  eyes  and 
which  showed  his  white  teeth.  "We  no  longer  ex- 
pected you,  sirs.  Every  one  has  disappointed  us.  Lin- 
coln did  not  wish  to  leave  his  atelier.  It  seems  that 
Mademoiselle  Hafner  excused  herself  yesterday  to 
these  ladies.  Countess  Steno  has  a  headache.  We  did 
not  even  count  on  the  Baron,  who  is  usually  prompt- 
ness personified." 

"I  was  sure  Dorsenne  would  not  fail  us,"  said  Alba, 
gazing  at  the  young  man  with  her  large  eyes,  of  a  blue 
as  clear  as  those  of  Madame  Gorka  were  dark,  "  Only 
that  I  expected  we  should  meet  him  on  the  staircase 
as  we  were  leaving,  and  that  he  would  say  to  us,  in 
surprise:  'What,  I  am  not  on  time?'  Ah,"  she 
continued,  "do  not  excuse  yourself,  but  reply  to  the 
examination  in  Roman  history  we  are  about  to  put  you 
through.  We  have  to  follow  here  a  veritable  course 
studying  all  these  old  chests.  What  are  the  arms  of 
this  family?"  she  asked,  leaning  with  Dorsenne  over 
one  of  the  cassoni.     "You  do  not  know?    The  Carafa, 

[57] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

famous  man  I  And  what  Pope  did  they  have?  You 
do  not  know  that  either  ?  Paul  Fourth,  sir  novehst.  If 
ever  you  visit  us  in  \'enice.  you  will  be  surprised  at  the 
Doges." 

She  employed  so  affectionate  a  grace  in  that  speech, 
and  she  was  so  apparently  in  one  of  her  moods — so 
rare,  alas! — of  childish  joyousness,  that  Dorsenne, 
preoccupied  as  he  was,  felt  his  heart  contract  on  her 
account.  The  simultaneous  absence  of  ^ladame  Steno 
and  Lincoln  !Maitland  could  only  be  fortuitous.  But 
persuaded  that  the  Countess  loved  Maitland,  and  not 
doubting  that  she  was  his  mistress,  the  absence  of  both 
appeared  singularly  suspicious  to  him.  Such  a  thought 
sufficed  to  render  the  young  girl's  innocent  gayety 
painful  to  him.  That  gayety  would  become  tragical  if 
it  were  true  that  the  Countess's  other  lover  had  returned 
unexpectedly,  warned  by  some  one.  Dorsenne  ex- 
perienced genuine  agitation  on  asking  Madame  Gorka: 

''HowisBoleslas?" 

"Vcr}'  well,  I  suppose,"  said  his  wife.  'T  have  not 
had  a  letter  to-day.  Does  not  one  of  your  proverbs 
say,  *No  news  is  good  news?'" 

Baron  Hafner  was  beside  Maud  Gorka  when  she 
uttered  that  sentence.  Involuntarily  Dorsenne  looked 
at  him,  and  involuntarily,  master  as  he  was  of  himself, 
he  looked  at  Dorsenne.  It  was  no  longer  a  question 
of  a  simple  hj'pothesis.  That  Boleslas  Gorka  had 
returned  to  Rome  unknown  to  his  wife  constituted, 
for  any  one  who  knew  of  his  relations  with  Madame 
Steno,  and  of  the  infidelity  of  the  latter,  an  event  full 
of  formidable  consequences.     Both  men  were  possessed 

[58] 


COSMOPOLIS 

by  the  same  thought.  Was  there  still  time  to  prevent  a 
catastrophe?  But  each  of  them  in  this  circumstance, 
as  is  so  often  the  case  in  important  matters  of  life, 
was  to  show  the  deepness  of  his  character.  Xot  a 
muscle  of  Hafner's  face  quivered.  It  was  a  question, 
perhaps,  of  rendering  a  service  to  a  woman  in  danger, 
whom  he  loved  vAih  all  the  feeling  of  which  he  was 
capable.  That  woman  was  the  mainspring  of  his 
social  position  in  Rome.  She  was  still  more.  A  plan 
for  Fanny's  marriage,  as  yet  secret,  but  on  the  point 
of  being  consummated,  depended  upon  Madame  Steno. 
But  he  felt  it  impossible  to  attempt  to  render  her  any 
service  before  having  spent  half  an  hour  in  the  rooms 
of  the  Palais  Castagna,  and  he  began  to  employ  that 
half  hour  in  a  manner  which  would  be  most  profitable 
to  his  possible  purchases,  for  he  turned  to  Madame 
Gorka  and  said  to  her,  with  the  rather  exaggerated 
politeness  habitual  to  him : 

"Countess,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  advise  you,  do 
not  pause  so  long  before  these  coffers,  interesting  as 
they  may  be.  First,  as  I  have  just  told  Dorsenne, 
Cavalier  Fossati,  the  agent,  has  his  spies  ever}'^\-here 
here.  Your  position  has  already  been  remarked, 
you  may  be  sure,  so  that  if  you  take  a  fancy  for  one, 
he  wdll  know  it  in  advance,  and  he  will  manage  to 
make  you  pay  double,  triple,  and  more  for  it.  And 
then  we  have  to  see  so  much,  notably  a  cartoon  of 
twelve  designs  by  old  masters,  which  Ardea  did  not 
even  suspect  he  had,  and  which  Fossati  discovered — 
would  you  believe  ? — worm-eaten,  in  a  cupboard  in  one 
of  the  granaries." 

[59] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"There  is  some  one  whom  your  collection  would 
interest,"  said  Florent,  "my  brother-in-law." 

"Well,"  rephed  Madame  Gorka  to  Hafner  with  her 
habitual  good-nature,  "there  are  at  least  two  of  these 
coffers  that  I  like  and  ^^'ish  to  have.  I  said  it  in 
so  loud  a  tone  that  it  is  not  worth  the  trouble  of  hoping 
that  your  Cavaher  Fossati  does  not  know  it,  if  he 
really  has  that  mode  of  espionage  in  practice.  But 
forty  or  fifty  pounds  more  make  no  difference — nor 
forty  thousand  even." 

"Baron  Hafner  will  warn  you  that  your  tone  is  not 
low  enough,"  laughed  Alba  Steno,  "and  he  will  add 
his  great  phrase:  'You  will  never  be  diplomatic' 
But,"  added  the  girl,  turning  toward  Dorsenne,  hav- 
ing dra^^^l  back  from  silent  Lydia  Maitland,  and 
arranging  to  fall  behind  with  the  young  man,  "I  am 
about  to  employ  a  little  diplomacy  in  order  to  find  out 
whether  you  have  any  trouble."  And  here  her  mobile 
face  changed  its  expression,  looking  into  Julien's  with 
genuine  anxiety.  "Yes,"  said  she,  "I  have  never  seen 
you  so  preoccupied  as  you  seem  to  be  this  morning. 
Do  you  not  feel  well?  Have  you  received  ill  news 
from  Paris  ?    What  ails  you  ? " 

"I  preoccupied?"  replied  Dorsenne.  "You  are  mis- 
taken. There  is  absolutely  nothing,  I  assure  you." 
It  was  impossible  to  lie  with  more  apparent  awkward- 
ness, and  if  any  one  merited  the  scorn  of  Baron  Haf- 
ner, it  was  he.  Hardly  had  Madame  Gorka  spoken, 
when  he  had,  with  the  rapidity  of  men  of  vivid  imagi- 
nation, seen  Countess  Steno  and  Maitland  surprised 
by  Gorka,  at  that  very  moment,   in  some  place  of 

[60] 


COSMOPOLIS 

rendezvous,  and  that  surprise  followed  by  a  challenge, 
perhaps  an  immediate  murder.  And,  as  Alba  con- 
tinued to  laugh  merrily,  his  presentiment  of  her  sad 
fate  became  so  ^i^dd  that  his  face  actually  clouded 
over.  He  felt  impelled  to  ascertain,  when  she  ques- 
tioned him,  how  great  a  friendship  she  bore  him. 
But  his  effort  to  hide  his  emotion  rendered  his  voice 
so  harsh  that  the  young  girl  resumed: 

"I  have  vexed  you  by  my  questioning?" 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  he  repHed,  without 
being  able  to  find  a  word  of  friendship.  He  felt  at 
that  moment  incapable  of  talking,  as  they  usually  did, 
in  that  tone  of  famiharity,  partly  mocking,  partly  sen- 
timental, and  he  added:  "I  simply  think  this  exposi- 
tion somewhat  melancholy,  that  is  all."  And,  with 
a  smile,  "But  we  shall  lose  the  opportunity  of  ha\'ing 
it  shown  us  by  our  incomparable  cicerone,'^  and  he 
obliged  her,  by  quickening  her  pace,  to  rejoin  the 
group  piloted  by  Hafner  through  the  magnificence  of 
the  almost  deserted  apartment. 

"See,"  said  the  former  broker  of  Berlin  and  of 
Paris,  now  an  enlightened  amateur — "see,  how  that 
charlatan  of  a  Fossati  has  taken  care  not  to  increase 
the  number  of  trinkets  now  that  we  are  in  the  reception- 
rooms.  These  armchairs  seem  to  await  in\ited  guests. 
They  are  known.  They  have  been  illustrated  in  a 
magazine  of  decorative  art  in  Paris.  And  that  dining- 
room  through  that  door,  with  all  the  silver  on  the 
table,  would  you  not  think  a  fete  had  been  prepared?" 

"Baron,"  said  Madame  Gorka,  "look  at  this  ma- 
terial; it  is  of  the  eighteenth  century,  is  it  not?" 

[6i] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"Baron,"  asked  Madame  Maitland,  "is  this  cup 
with  the  Hd  old  Vienna  or  Capadimonte  ? " 

"Baron,"  said  Florent  Chapron,  "is  this  armor  of 
Florentine  or  Milanese  workmanship?" 

The  eyeglass  was  raised  to  the  Baron's  thin  nose, 
his  small  eyes  glittered,  his  lips  were  pursed  up,  and 
he  replied,  in  words  as  exact  as  if  he  had  studied  all 
the  details  of  the  catalogue  verbatim.  Their  thanks 
were  soon  followed  by  many  other  questions,  in  which 
two  voices  alone  did  not  join,  that  of  Alba  Steno  and 
that  of  Dorsennc.  Under  any  other  circumstances, 
the  latter  would  have  tried  to  dissipate  the  increasing 
sadness  of  the  young  girl,  who  said  no  more  to  him 
after  he  repulsed  her  amicable  anxiety.  In  reality,  he 
attached  no  great  importance  to  it.  Those  transitions 
from  excessive  gayety  to  sudden  depressi(3Ti  were  so 
habitual  with  the  Contcssina,  above  all  when  with 
him.  Although  they  were  the  sign  of  a  vivid  senti- 
ment, the  young  man  saw  in  them  only  nervous  unrest, 
for  his  mind  was  absorbed  with  other  thoughts. 

He  asked  himself  if,  at  any  hazard,  after  the  manner 
in  which  Madame  Gorka  had  spoken,  it  would  not 
be  more  prudent  to  acquaint  Lincoln  Maitland  with 
the  secret  return  of  his  rival.  Perhaps  the  drama  had 
not  yet  taken  place,  and  if  only  the  two  persons  threat- 
ened were  warned,  no  doubt  Ilafner  would  put  Countess 
Steno  upon  her  guard.  Hut  when  would  he  sec  her? 
What  if  he,  Dorsenne,  shoukl  at  once  tell  Maitland's 
brother-in-law  of  Gorka's  return,  to  that  Florent 
Chapron  whom  he  saw  at  the  moment  glancing  at  all 
the  objects  of  the  princely  exposition?    The  step  was 

[62] 


COSMOPOLIS 

an  enormous  undertaking,  and  would  have  appeared 
so  to  any  one  but  Julien,  who  knew  that  the  relations 
between  Florent  Chapron  and  Lincoln  Maitland  were 
of  a  very  exceptional  nature.  Julien  knew  that  Flor- 
ent— sent  when  very  young  to  the  Jesuits  of  Beau- 
mont, in  England,  by  a  father  anxious  to  spare  him 
the  humiliation  which  his  blood  would  call  down  upon 
him  in  America — had  formed  a  friendship  with  Lin- 
coln, a  pupil  in  the  same  school.  He  knew  that  the 
friendship  for  the  schoolmate  had  turned  to  enthusiasm 
for  the  artist,  when  the  talent  of  his  old  comrade  had 
begun  to  reveal  itself.  He  knew  that  the  marriage, 
which  had  placed  the  fortune  of  Lydia  at  the  service 
of  the  development  of  the  painter,  had  been  the  work 
of  that  enthusiasm  at  an  epoch  when  Maitland,  spoiled 
by  the  unwise  government  of  his  mother,  and  unap- 
preciated by  the  pubHc,  was  wrung  by  despair.  The 
exceptional  character  of  the  marriage  would  have  sur- 
prised a  man  less  heeding  of  moral  peculiarities  than 
was  Dorsenne,  who  had  observed,  all  too  frequently, 
the  silence  and  reserve  of  that  sister  not  to  look  upon 
her  as  a  sacrifice.  He  fancied  that  admiration  for  his 
brother-in-law's  genius  had  blinded  Florent  to  such  a 
degree  that  he  was  the  first  cause  of  the  sacrifice. 

"Drama  for  drama,"  said  he  to  himself,  as  the  visit 
drew  near  its  close,  and  after  a  long  debate  with  him- 
self. "I  should  prefer  to  have  it  one  rather  than  the 
other  in  that  family.  I  should  reproach  myself  all 
my  life  for  not  having  tried  every  means."  They 
were  in  the  last  room,  and  Baron  Hafner  was  just 
fastening  the  strings  of  an  album  of  drawmgs,  when 

[63] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

the  conviction  took  possession  of  the  young  man  in  a 
definite  manner.  Alba  Steno,  who  still  maintained  si- 
lence, looked  at  him  again  with  eyes  which  revealed 
the  struggle  of  her  interest  for  him  and  of  her  wounded 
pride.  She  longed,  without  doubt,  at  the  moment 
they  were  about  to  separate,  to  ask  him,  according  to 
their  intimate  and  charming  custom,  when  they  should 
meet  again.  He  did  not  heed  her — any  more  than  he 
did  the  other  pair  of  eyes  which  told  him  to  be  more 
prudent,  and  which  were  those  of  the  Baron;  any 
more  than  he  did  the  observation  of  Madame  Gorka, 
who,  having  remarked  the  ill-humor  of  Alba,  was 
seeking  the  cause,  which  she  had  long  since  divined 
was  the  heart  of  the  young  girl;  any  more  than  the 
attitude  of  Madame  Maitland,  whose  eyes  at  times 
shot  fire  equal  to  her  brother's  gentleness.  He  took 
the  latter  by  the  arm,  and  said  to  him  aloud : 

"I  should  like  to  have  your  opinion  on  a  small  por- 
trait I  have  noticed  in  the  other  room,  my  dear  Chap- 
ron."  Then,  when  they  were  before  the  canvas  which 
had  served  as  a  pretext  for  the  aside,  he  continued,  in 
a  low  voice:  "I  heard  very  strange  news  this  morning. 
Do  you  know  Boleslas  Gorka  is  in  Rome  unknown  to 
his  wife?" 

"That  is  indeed  strange, "  replied  Maitland's  brother- 
in-law,  adding  simply,  after  a  silence:  "Are  you  cer- 
tain of  it?" 

"As  certain  as  that  we  are  here,"  said  Dorsenne. 
"One  of  my  friends.  Marquis  de  Montfanon,  met  him 
this  morning." 

A   fresh  silence  ensued   between   the  two,   during 

[64] 


COSMOPOLIS 

which  Julicn  felt  that  the  arm  upon  which  he  rested 
trembled.  Then  they  joined  the  party,  while  Florent 
said  aloud:  "It  is  an  excellent  piece  of  painting,  which 
has,  unfortunately,  been  revarnished  too  much." 

"May  I  have  done  right!"  thought  Julien.     "He 
understood  me." 


[65  J 


CHAPTER  III 

BOLESLAS   GORKA 

ARDLY  ten  minutes  had  passed 
since  Dorsenne  had  spol^en  as  he  had 
to  Florent  Chapron,  and  already  the 
imprudent  novehst  began  to  wonder 
whether  it  would  not  have  been  wiser 
not  to  interfere  in  any  way  in  an  ad- 
\enture  in  which  his  intervention  was 
of  the  least  importance. 
The  apprehension  of  an  immediate  drama  which  had 
possessed  him,  for  the  first  time,  after  the  conversation 
with  Alontfanon,  for  the  second  time,  in  a  stronger 
manner,  by  proving  the  ignorance  of  Madame  Gorka 
on  the  subject  of  the  husband's  return — that  frightful 
and  irresistible  evocation  in  a  clandestine  chamber, 
suddenly  deluged  with  blood,  was  banished  by  the 
simplest  event.  The  six  visitors  exchanged  their  last 
impressions  on  the  melancholy  and  magnificence  of  the 
Castagna  ajDartments,  and  they  ended  by  descending 
the  grand  staircase  with  the  pillars,  through  the  win- 
dows of  which  staircase  smiled  beneath  the  scorching 
sun  the  small  garden  which  Dorsenne  had  compared 
to  a  face.  The  young  man  walked  a  little  in  advance, 
beside  Alba  Steno,  whom  he  now  tried,  but  in  vain, 
to  cheer.     Suddenly,   at   the  last   turn  of  the  broad 

[66] 


COSMOPOLIS 

steps  which  tempered  the  decline  gradually,  her  face 
brightened  with  surprise  and  pleasure.  She  uttered 
a  slight  cry  and  said:  "There  is  my  mother!"  And 
Julien  saw  the  jNIadamc  Steno,  whom  he  had  seen,  in 
an  access  of  almost  delirious  anxiety,  surprised,  assas- 
sinated by  a  betrayed  lover.  She  was  standing  upon 
the  gray  and  black  mosaic  of  the  peristyle,  dressed  in 
the  most  charming  morning  toilette.  Her  golden  hair 
was  gathered  up  under  a  large  hat  of  flowers,  over 
which  was  a  white  veil ;  her  hand  toyed  with  the  silver 
handle  of  a  white  parasol,  and  in  the  reflection  of  that 
whiteness,  with  her  clear,  fair  complexion,  with  her 
lovely  blue  eyes  in  which  sparkled  passion  and  intel- 
ligence, with  her  faultless  teeth  which  gleamed  when 
she  smiled,  with  her  form  still  slender  notwithstanding 
the  fulness  of  her  bust,  she  seemed  to  be  a  creature  so 
youthful,  so  vigorous,  so  little  touched  by  age  that  a 
stranger  would  never  have  taken  her  to  be  the  mother 
of  the  tall  young  girl  who  was  already  beside  her  and 
who  said  to  her: 

''What  imprudence!  Ill  as  you  were  this  morning, 
to  go  out  in  this  sun.     Why  did  you  do  so?" 

"To  fetch  you  and  to  take  you  home!"  replied  the 
Countess  gayly.  "I  was  ashamed  of  having  indulged 
myself!  I  rose,  and  here  I  am.  Good-day,  Dor- 
senne.  I  hope  you  kept  your  eyes  open  up  there.  A 
story  might  be  written  on  the  Ardea  affair.  I  will 
tell  it  to  you.  Good-day,  Maud.  How  kind  of  you 
to  make  lazy  Alba  exercise  a  little!  She  would  have 
quite  a  different  color  if  she  walked  every  morning. 
Good-day,   Florent.     Good-day,   Lydia.     The   master 

[67] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

is  not  here?  And  you,  old  friend,  what  have  you 
done  with  Fanny?" 

She  distributed  these  simple  "good-days"  with  a 
grace  so  delicate,  a  smile  so  rare  for  each  one — tender 
for  her  daughter,  spirituelle  for  the  author,  grateful  for 
Madame  Gorka,  amicably  surprised  for  Chapron  and 
Madame  Maitland,  familiar  and  confiding  for  her  old 
jriend,  as  she  called  the  Baron.  She  was  evidently 
the  soul  of  the  small  party,  for  her  mere  presence 
seemed  to  have  caused  animation  to  sparkle  in  every 
eye. 

All  talked  at  once,  and  she  replied,  as  they  walked 
toward  the  carriages,  which  waited  in  a  court  of  honor 
capable  of  holding  seventy  gala  chariots.  One  after 
the  other  these  carriages  advanced.  The  horses  pawed 
the  ground;  the  harnesses  shone;  the  footmen  and 
coachmen  were  dressed  in  perfect  liveries;  the  porter 
of  the  Palais  Castagna,  with  his  long  redingote,  on  the 
buttons  of  which  were  the  symboHcal  chestnuts  of  the 
family,  had  beneath  his  laced  hat  such  a  dignified  bear- 
ing that  Julien  suddenly  found  it  absurd  to  have  im- 
agined an  impassioned  drama  in  connection  with  such 
people.  The  last  one  left,  while  watching  the  others 
depart,  he  once  more  experienced  the  sensation  so 
common  to  those  who  are  familiar  with  the  worst  side 
of  the  splendor  of  society  and  who  perceive  in  them 
the  moral  misery  and  ironical  gayety. 

"You  arc  becoming  a  great  simpleton,  my  friend, 
Dorscnnc,"  said  he,  seating  himself  more  democrat- 
ically in  one  of  those  open  cabs  called  in  Rome  a  botte. 
"To  fear  a  tragical  adventure  for  the  woman  who  is 

[68] 


COSMOPOLIS 

mistress  of  herself  to  such  a  degree  is  something  like 
casting  one's  self  into  the  water  to  prevent  a  shark  from 
drowning.  If  she  had  not  upon  her  lips  Maitland's 
kisses,  and  in  her  eyes  the  memory  of  happiness,  I  am 
very  much  mistaken.  She  came  from  a  rendezvous. 
It  was  written  for  me,  in  her  toilette,  in  the  color  upon 
her  cheeks,  in  her  tiny  shoes,  easy  to  remove,  which 
had  not  taken  thirty  steps.  And  with  what  mastery 
she  uttered  her  string  of  falsehoods!  Her  daughter, 
Madame  Gorka,  Madame  Maitland,  how  quickly  she 
included  them  all!  That  is  why  I  do  not  like  the 
theatre,  where  one  finds  the  actress  who  employs  that 
tone  to  utter  her:  *  Is  the  master  not  here  ? ' " 

He  laughed  aloud,  then  his  thoughts,  relieved  of  all 
anxiety,  took  a  new  course,  and,  using  the  word  of 
German  origin  familiar  to  Cosmopolitans,  to  express 
an  absurd  action,  he  said:  "I  have  made  a  pretty 
schlemylade,  as  Hafner  would  say,  in  relating  to  Florent 
Gorka's  unexpected  arrival.  It  was  just  the  same  as 
telling  him  that  Maitland  was  the  Countess's  lover. 
That  is  a  conversation  at  which  I  should  like  to  assist, 
that  which  will  take  place  between  the  two  brothers- 
in-law.  Should  I  be  very  much  surprised  to  learn 
that  this  unattached  negro  is  the  confidant  of  his  great 
friend  ?  It  is  a  subject  to  paint,  which  has  never  been 
well  treated ;  the  passionate  friendships  of  a  Tattet  for 
a  Musset,  of  an  Eckermann  for  a  Goethe,  of  an  Asse- 
lineau  for  a  Beaudelaire,  the  total  absorption  of  the 
admirer  in  the  admired.  Florent  found  that  the  genius 
of  the  great  painter  had  need  of  a  fortune,  and  he  gave 
him  his  sister.     Were  he  to  find  that  that  genius  re- 

[69] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

quired  a  passion  in  order  to  develop  still  more,  he 
would  not  object.  My  word  of  honor!  He  glanced  at 
the  Countess  just  now  with  gratitude!  Why  not, 
after  all?  Lincoln  is  a  colorist  of  the  highest  order, 
although  his  desire  to  be  with  the  tide  has  led  him 
into  too  many  imitations.  But  it  is  his  race.  Young 
Madame  Maitland  has  as  much  sense  as  the  handle 
of  a  basket;  and  ]Madame  Steno  is  one  of  those  ex- 
traordinary women  truly  created  to  exalt  the  ideals  of 
an  artist.  Never  has  he  painted  anything  as  he  paint- 
ed the  portrait  of  Alba.     I  can  hear  this  dialogue: 

"'You  know  the  Pole  has  returned?  What  Pole? 
The  Countess's.  What?  You  believe  those  calum- 
nies?' Ah,  what  comedies  here  below  !  'Gad  ! 
The  cabman  has  also  committed  his  schlemylade.  I 
told  him  Rue  Sistina,  near  La  Trinite-des-Monts,  and 
here  he  is  going  through  Place  Barberini  instead  of 
cutting  across  Capo  le  Case.  It  is  my  fault  as  well, 
I  should  not  have  heeded  it  had  there  been  an  earth- 
quake. Let  us  at  least  admire  the  Triton  of  Bernin. 
What  a  sculptor  that  man  was!  yet  he  never  thought 
of  nature  except  to  falsify  it." 

These  incoherent  remarks  were  made  with  a  good- 
nature decidedly  optimistic,  as  could  be  seen,  when 
the  fiacre  finally  drew  up  at  the  given  address.  It  was 
that  of  a  very  modest  restaurant  decorated  with  this 
signboard :  Trattoria  al  Marzocco.  And  the  Marzocco, 
the  h*on  symbolical  of  Florence,  was  represented  above 
the  door,  resting  his  })aw  on  tlie  escutcheon  ornamented 
with  the  national  lys.  The  ajjpearance  of  that  front 
did  not  justify  the  choice  which  the  elegant  Dorscnne 

[70  J 


COSMOPOLIS 

had  made  of  the  place  at  which  to  dine  when  he 
did  not  dine  in  society.  But  his  dilettantism  liked 
nothing  better  than  those  sudden  leaps  from  society, 
and  M.  Egiste  Brancadori,  who  kept  the  Marzocco,  was 
one  of  those  unconscious  buffoons  of  whom  he  was  con- 
tinually in  search  in  real  life,  one  of  those  whom  he 
called  his  "  Thebans  ",  in  reference  to  King  Lear.  "  I'll 
talk  a  word  with  this  same  learned  Theban,"  cried  the 
mad  king,  one  knows  not  why,  when  he  meets  "poor 
Tom"  on  the  heath. 

That  Dorsenne's  Parisian  friends,  the  Casals,  the 
Machaults,  the  De  Vardes,  those  habitues  of  the  club, 
might  nqt  judge  him  too  severely,  he  explained  that 
the  Theban  born  in  Florence  was  a  cook  of  the  first 
order  and  that  the  modest  restaurant  had  its  story. 
It  amused  so  paradoxical  an  observer  as  Julien  was. 
He  often  said,  "Who  will  ever  dare  to  write  the  truth 
of  the  history?"  This,  for  example:  Pope  Pius  IX, 
having  asked  the  Emperor  to  send  him  some  troops  to 
protect  his  dominions,  the  latter  agreed  to  do  so — an 
occupation  which  bore  two  results:  a  Corsican  hatred 
of  the  half  of  Italy  against  France  and  the  founding 
of  the  Marzocco  by  Egiste  Brancadori,  says  the  The- 
ban or  the  doctor.  It  was  one  of  the  pleasantries  of 
the  novelist  to  pretend  to  have  cured  his  dyspepsia  in 
Italy,  thanks  to  the  wise  and  wholesome  cooking  of  the 
said  Egiste.  In  reality,  and  more  simply,  Brancadori 
was  the  old  cook  of  a  Russian  lord,  one  of  the  Were- 
kiews,  the  cousin  of  pretty  Alba  Steno's  real  father. 
That  Werekiew,  renowned  in  Rome  for  the  daintiness 
of  his  dinners,  died  suddenly  in  1866.     Several  of  the 

[71] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

frequenters  of  his  house,  advised  by  a  French  officer 
of  the  army  of  occupation,  and  tired  of  clubs,  hotels, 
and  ordinary  restaurants,  determined  to  form  a  syn- 
dicate and  to  employ  his  former  cook.  They,  with 
his  cooperation,  established  a  sort  of  superior  cafe, 
to  which  with  some  pride  they  gave  the  name  of 
the  CuHnary  Club.  By  assuring  to  each  one  a  min- 
imum of  sixteen  meals  for  seven  francs,  they  kept 
for  four  years  an  excellent  table,  at  which  were  to  be 
found  all  the  distinguished  tourists  in  Rome.  The 
year  1870  had  disbanded  that  little  society  of  con- 
noisseurs and  of  conversationalists,  and  the  club  was 
metamorphosed  into  a  restaurant,  almost  unknown, 
except  to  a  few  artists  or  diplomats  who  were  attracted 
by  the  ancient  splendors  of  the  place,  and,  above  all, 
by  the  knowledge  of  the  "doctor's"  talents. 

It  was  not  unusual  at  eight  o'clock  for  the  three  small 
rooms  which  composed  the  establishment  to  be  full  of 
men  in  white  cravats,  white  waistcoats  and  evening 
coats.  To  cosmopolitan  Dorsenne  this  was  a  sin- 
gularly interesting  sight;  a  member  of  the  English 
embassy  here,  of  the  Russian  embassy  farther  on,  two 
German  attaches  elsewhere,  two  French  secretaries 
near  at  hand  from  St.  Siege,  another  from  the 
Quirinal.  What  interested  the  novelist  still  more  was 
the  conversation  of  the  doctor  himself,  genial  Bran- 
cadori,  who  could  neither  read  nor  write.  But  he  had 
preserved  a  faithful  remembrance  of  all  his  old  cus- 
tomers, and  when  he  felt  confidential,  standing  erect 
upon  the  threshold  of  his  kitchen,  of  the  possession  of 
which  he  was  so  insolently  proud,  he  repeated  curious 

[72I 


COSMOPOLIS 

stories  of  Rome  in  the  days  of  his  youth.  His  ges- 
tures, so  conformable  to  the  appearance  of  things,  his 
mobile  face  and  his  Tuscan  tongue,  which  softened  into 
h  all  the  harsh  e's  between  two  vowels,  gave  a  savor  to 
his  stories  which  delighted  a  seeker  after  local  truths. 
It  was  in  the  morning  especially,  when  there  was  no 
one  in  the  restaurant,  that  he  voluntarily  left  his  ovens 
to  chat,  and  if  Dorsenne  gave  the  address  of  the  Mar- 
zocco  to  his  cabman,  it  was  in  the  hope  that  the  old 
cook  would  in  his  manner  sketch  for  him  the  story  of 
the  ruin  of  Ardea.  Brancadori  was  standing  by  the 
bar  where  was  enthroned  his  niece,  Signorina  Saba- 
tina,  with  a  charming  Florentine  face,  chin  a  trifle 
long,  forehead  somewhat  broad,  nose  somewhat  short, 
a  sinuous  mouth,  large,  black  eyes,  an  olive  complexion 
and  waving  hair,  which  recalled  in  a  forcible  manner 
the  favorite  type  of  the  first  of  the  Ghirlandajos. 

"Uncle,"  said  the  young  girl,  as  soon  as  she  per- 
ceived Dorsenne,  "where  have  you  put  the  letter 
brought  for  the  Prince?" 

In  Italy  every  foreigner  is  a  prince  or  a  count,  and 
the  profound  good-nature  which  reigns  in  the  habit 
gives  to  those  titles,  in  the  mouths  of  those  who  employ 
them,  an  amiability  often  free  from  calculation.  There 
is  no  country  in  the  world  where  there  is  a  truer,  a 
more  charming  familiarity  of  class  for  class,  and  Bran- 
cadori immediately  gave  a  proof  of  it  in  addressing  as 
"carolei" — that  is  to  say,  "my  dear" — him  whom  his 
daughter  had  blazoned  with  a  coronet,  and  he  cried, 
fumbling  in  the  pockets  of  the  alpaca  waistcoat  which 
he  wore  over  his  apron  of  office: 

[73] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"The  brain  is  often  lacking  in  a  gray  head.  I  put 
it  in  the  pocket  of  my  coat  in  order  to  be  more  sure  of 
not  forgetting  it.  I  changed  my  coat,  because  it  was 
warm,  and  left  it  with  the  letter  in  my  apartments." 

"You  can  look  for  it  after  lunch,"  said  Dorsenne. 

"No,"  replied  the  young  girl,  rising,  "it  is  not  two 
steps  from  here;  I  will  go.  The  concierge  of  the 
palace  where  your  Excellency  lives  brought  it  himself, 
and  said  it  must  be  delivered  immediately." 

"Very  well,  go  and  fetch  it,"  replied  Julien,  who 
could  not  suppress  a  smile  at  the  honor  paid  his  dwell- 
ing, "and  I  will  remain  here  and  talk  with  my  doctor, 
while  he  gives  me  the  prescription  for  this  morning — 
that  is  to  say,  his  bill  of  fare.  Guess  whence  I  come, 
Brancadori, "  he  added,  assured  of  first  stirring  the 
cook's  curiosity,  then  his  power  of  speech.  "From 
the  Palais  Castagna,  where  they  are  selling  every- 
thing." 

"Ah!  Per  Bacco !  ^^  exclaimed  the  Tuscan,  with 
evident  sorrow  upon  his  old  parchment-like  face, 
scorched  from  forty  years  of  cooking.  "If  the  de- 
ceased Prince  Urban  can  see  it  in  the  other  world, 
his  heart  will  break,  I  assure  you.  The  last  time 
he  came  to  dine  here,  about  ten  years  ago,  on  Saint 
Joseph's  Day,  he  said  to  mc:  'Make  me  some  fritters, 
Egiste,  like  those  we  used  to  have  at  Monsieur  d'Epi- 
nag's.  Monsieur  Clairin's,  Fortuny's,  and  poor  Henri 
Rcgnault's. '  And  he  was  happy!  'Egiste,'  said  he 
to  me,  'I  can  die  contented!  I  have  only  one  son, 
])U[  I  shall  leave  him  six  millions  and  the  palace.  If 
it  was  Gigi  I  should  be  less  easy,  but  Peppino!'     Gigi 

[74l 


COSMOPOLIS 

was  the  other  one,  the  elder,  who  died,  the  gay  one, 
who  used  to  come  here  every  day — a  fine  fellow,  but 
bad  !  You  should  have  heard  him  tell  of  his  visit 
to  Pius  Ninth  on  the  day  upon  which  he  converted  an 
Englishman.  Yes,  Excellency,  he  converted  him  by 
lending  him  by  mistake  a  pious  book  instead  of  a 
novel.  The  Englishman  took  the  book,  read  it,  read 
another,  a  third,  and  became  a  Catholic.  Gigi, 
who  was  not  in  favor  at  the  Vatican,  hastened  to  tell 
the  Holy  Father  of  his  good  deed.  'You  see,  my  son,' 
said  Pius  Ninth,  'what  means  our  Lord  God  employs!' 
Ah,  he  would  have  used  those  millions  for  his  amuse- 
ment, while  Peppino  !  They  were  all  squandered 
in  signatures.  Just  think,  the  name  of  Prince  d'Ardea 
meant  money !  He  speculated,  he  lost,  he  won,  he 
lost  again,  he  drew  up  bills  of  exchange  after  bills  of 
exchange.  And  every  time  he  made  a  move  such 
as  I  am  making  with  my  pencil — only  I  can  not  sign  my 
name — it  meant  one  hundred,  two  hundred  thousand 
francs  to  go  into  the  world.  And  now  he  must 
leave  his  house  and  Rome.  What  will  he  do. 
Excellency,  I  ask  you?"  With  a  shake  of  his  head 
he  added:  "He  should  reconstruct  his  fortune  abroad. 
We  have  this  saying:  'He  who  squanders  gold  with 
his  hands  will  search  for  it  with  his  feet.'  But 
Sabatino  is  coming!  She  has  been  as  nimble  as  a 
cat." 

The  good  man's  invaluable  mimetic  art,  his  proverbs, 
the  story  of  the  jete  of  St.  Joseph,  the  original  evoca- 
tion of  the  heir  of  the  Castagnas  continually  sign- 
ing and  signing,   the  coarse  explanation  of  his  ruin 

[75] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

— very  true,  however — everything  in  the  recital  had 
amused  Dorsenne.  He  knew  enough  Itahan  to  ap- 
preciate the  untranslatable  passages  of  the  language 
of  the  man  of  the  people.  He  was  again  on  the  verge 
of  laughter,  when  the  fresco  madonna,  as  he  some- 
times designated  the  young  girl,  handed  him  an  en- 
velope the  address  upon  which  soon  converted  his 
smile  into  an  undisguised  expression  of  annoyance. 
He  pushed  aside  the  day's  bill  of  fare  which  the  old 
cook  presented  to  him  and  said,  brusquely:  "I  fear  I 
can  not  remain  to  breakfast. "  Then,  opening  the  let- 
ter: ''No,  I  can  not;  adieu."  And  he  went  out,  in  a 
manner  so  precipitate  and  troubled  that  the  uncle  and 
niece  exchanged  smiling  glances.  Those  typical  South- 
erners could  not  think  of  any  other  trouble  in  con- 
nection with  so  handsome  a  man  as  Dorsenne  than 
that  of  the  heart. 

''Chi  ha  Vamor  nel  petto, ^^  said  Signorina  Sabatina. 

''Ha  lo  spron  nei  fianchi,^^  replied  the  uncle. 

That  naive  adage  which  compares  the  sharp  sting 
which  passion  drives  into  our  breasts  to  the  spurring 
given  the  flanks  of  a  horse,  was  not  true  of  Dorsenne. 
The  application  of  the  proverb  to  the  circumstance 
was  not,  however,  entirely  erroneous,  and  the  novelist 
commented  upon  it  in  his  passion,  although  in  an- 
other form,  l)y  repeating  to  himself,  as  he  went  along 
the  Rue  Sistina:  "No,  no,  I  can  not  interfere  in  that 
afTair,  and  I  shall  tell  him  so  firmly." 

He  examined  again  the  note,  the  perusal  of  which 
had  rendered  him  more  uneasy  than  he  had  been 
twice  iK'fore  that  morning.     He  had  not  been  mistaken 

[76I 


He  examined  again  the  note. 

[From  the  Original  Drawing  by  Carl  Victor  Du)iggins.] 


[.tn'WwQ  ^o^y.^l  \ai»'D  vA  ^rhumQ  \on\^hO  •.,U-mr.,'^j 


COSMOPOLIS 

in  recognizing  on  the  envelope  the  handwriting  of 
Boleslas  Gorka,  and  these  were  the  terms,  teeming  with 
mystery  under  the  circumstances,  in  which  the  brief 
message  was  worded: 

"I  know  you  to  be  such  a  friend  to  me,  dear  Julien,  and  I  have 
for  your  character,  so  chivalrous  and  so  French,  such  esteem  that 
I  have  determined  to  turn  to  you  in  an  era  of  my  life  thoroughly 
tragical.  I  wish  to  see  you  immediately.  I  shall  await  you  at  your 
lodging.  I  have  sent  a  similar  note  to  the  Cercle  de  la  Chasse,  an- 
other to  the  bookshop  on  the  Corso,  another  to  your  antiquary's. 
Wheresoever  my  appeal  finds  you,  leave  all  and  come  at  once. 
You  will  save  more  for  me  than  life.  For  a  reason  which  I  will  tell 
you,  my  return  is  a  profound  secret.  No  one,  you  understand, 
knows  of  it  but  you.  I  need  not  write  more  to  a  friend  as  sincere 
as  you  are,  and  whom  I  embrace  with  all  my  heart. 

"B.  G." 

"It  is  unequalled!"  said  Dorsenne,  crumpling  the 
letter  with  rising  anger.  "He  embraces  me  with  all 
his  heart.  I  am  his  most  sincere  friend!  I  am 
chivalrous,  French,  the  only  person  he  esteems  ! 
What  disagreeable  commission  does  he  wish  me  to 
undertake  for  him?  Into  what  scrape  is  he  about  to 
ask  me  to  enter,  if  he  has  not  already  got  me  into  it? 
I  know  that  school  of  protestation.  We  are  allied 
for  life  and  death,  are  we  not?  Do  me  a  favor! 
And  they  upset  your  habits,  encroach  upon  your  time, 
embark  you  in  tragedies,  and  when  you  say  'No'  to 
them — then  they  squarely  accuse  you  of  selfishness  and 
of  treason!  It  is  my  fault,  too.  Why  did  I  listen  to 
his  confidences?  Have  I  not  known  for  years  that  a 
man  who  relates  his  love-affairs   on  so  short  an  ac- 

[77] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

quaintance  as  ours  is  a  scoundrel  and  a  fool?  And 
with  such  people  there  can  be  no  possible  connection. 
He  amused  me  at  the  beginning,  when  he  told  me  his 
sly  intrigue,  without  naming  the  person,  as  they  all 
do  at  first.  He  amused  me  still  more  by  the  way  he 
managed  to  name  her  without  violating  that  which 
people  in  society  call  honor.  And  to  think  that  the 
women  believe  in  that  honor  and  that  discretion! 
And  yet  it  was  the  surest  means  of  entering  Steno's, 
and  approaching  Alba.  ...  I  believe  I  am  about  to 
pay  for  my  Roman  flirtation.  If  Gorka  is  a  Pole,  I 
am  from  Lorraine,  and  the  heir  of  the  Castellans  will 
only  make  me  do  what  I  agree  to,  nothing  more." 

In  such  an  ill-humor  and  with  such  a  resolution, 
Julien  reached  the  door  of  his  house.  If  that  dwell- 
ing was  not  the  palace  alluded  to  by  Signorina  Saba- 
tina,  it  was  neither  the  usually  common  house  as  com- 
mon to-day  in  new  Rome  as  in  contemporary  Paris, 
modern  Berlin,  and  in  certain  streets  of  London  opened 
of  late  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hyde  Park.  It  was  an 
old  building  on  the  Place  de  la  Trinitc-dcs-Monts, 
at  an  angle  of  the  two  streets  Sistina  and  Gregoriana. 
Although  reduced  to  the  state  of  a  simple  pension^ 
more  or  less  bourgeoise,  tliat  house  had  its  name  marked 
in  certain  guide-books,  and  like  all  the  corners  of 
ancient  Rome  it  preserved  the  traces  of  a  glorious, 
artistic  history.  The  small  columns  of  the  porch  gave 
it  the  name  of  the  tempietto,  or  little  temple,  while 
several  j)ersonages  dear  to  litterateurs  had  lived  there, 
from  the  landscape  painter  Claude  Lorrain  to  the  iK)et 
Franyois  Copp^c.     A  few  paces  distant,  almost  op- 

[78] 


COSMOPOLIS 

posite,  lived  Poussin,  and  one  of  the  greatest  among 
modern  English  poets,  Keats,  died  quite  near  by,  the 
John  Keats  whose  tomb  is  to  be  seen  in  Rome,  with 
that  melencholy  epitaph  upon  it,  written  by  himself: 

Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water. 

It  was  seldom  that  Dorsenne  returned  home  with- 
out repeating  to  himself  the  translation  he  had  at- 
tempted of  that  beautiful  Ci-git  un  dont  le  noni  jut  ecrit 
sur  de  Veau. 

Sometimes  he  repeated,  at  evening,  this  delicious  frag- 
ment: 

The  sky  was  tinged  with  tender  green  and  pink. 

This  time  he  entered  in  a  more  prosaic  manner;  for 
he  addressed  the  concierge  in  the  tone  of  a  jealous 
husband  or  a  debtor  hunted  by  creditors: 

"Have  you  given  the  key  to  any  one,  Tonino?"  he 
asked. 

"Count  Gorka  said  that  your  Excellency  asked  him 
to  await  you  here,"  replied  the  man,  with  a  timidity 
rendered  all  the  more  comical  by  the  formidable  cut 
of  his  gray  moustache  and  his  imperial,  which  made 
him  a  caricature  of  the  late  King  Victor  Emmanuel. 

He  had  served  in  '59  under  the  Galantuomo,  and  he 
paid  the  homage  of  a  veteran  of  Solferino  to  that 
glorious  memory.  His  large  eyes  rolled  with  fear  at 
the  least  confusion,  and  he  repeated: 

"Yes,  he  said  that  your  Excellency  asked  him  to 
wait,"  while  Dorsenne  ascended  the  staircase,  saying 
aloud:    "More  and  more  perfect.     But  this  time  the 

[79] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

familiarity  passes  all  bounds;  and  it  is  better  so.  I 
have  been  so  surprised  and  annoyed  from  the  first 
that  I  shall  be  easily  able  to  refuse  the  imprudent  fel- 
low what  he  will  ask  of  me. "  In  his  anger  the  novelist 
sought  to  arm  himself  against  his  weakness,  of  which 
he  was  aware — not  the  weakness  of  insufficient  will, 
but  of  a  too  vivid  perception  of  the  motives  which  the 
person  with  whom  he  w^as  in  conflict  obeyed.  He, 
however,  was  to  learn  that  there  is  no  greater  dissol- 
vent of  rancor  than  intelligent  curiosity.  His  was, 
indeed,  aroused  by  a  simple  detail,  which  consisted  in 
ascertaining  under  w^hat  conditions  the  Pole  had  trav- 
elled; his  dressing-case,  his  overcoat  and  his  hat, 
still  white  with  the  dust  of  travel,  were  lying  upon  the 
table  in  the  antechamber. 

Evidently  he  had  come  direct  from  Warsaw  to  the 
Place  de  la  Trinite-des-Monts.  A  prey  to  what  delir- 
ium of  passion?  Dorsenne  had  not  time  to  ask  the 
question  any  more  than  he  had  presence  of  mind  to 
compose  his  manner  to  such  severity  that  it  would 
cut  short  all  familiarity  on  the  part  of  his  strange 
visitor.  At  the  noise  made  by  the  opening  of  the 
antechamber  door,  Boleslas  started  up.  He  seized 
both  hands  of  the  man  into  whose  apartments  he  had 
ol)lrudcd  himself.  He  pressed  them.  He  gazed  at  him 
with  feverish  eyes,  with  eyes  which  had  not  closed  for 
hours,  and  he  murmured,  drawing  the  novelist  into 
the  tiny  salon: 

"You  have  come,  Julien,  you  are  here!  Ah, 
I  thank  you  for  having  answered  my  call  at  once! 
Let  me  look  at  you,  for  I  am  sure  I  have  a  friend  beside 

[So] 


COSMOPOLIS 

me,  one  in  whom  I  can  trust,  with  whom  I  can  speak 
frankly,  upon  whom  I  can  depend.  If  this  soHtude  had 
lasted  much  longer  I  should  have  become  mad." 

Although  Madame  Steno's  lover  belonged  to  the 
class  of  excitable,  nervous  people  who  exaggerate  their 
feelings  by  an  unconscious  wildness  of  tone  and  of 
manner,  his  face  bore  the  traces  of  a  trouble  too  deep 
not  to  be  startling. 

Julien,  who  had  seen  him  set  out,  three  months 
before,  so  radiantly  handsome,  was  struck  by  the 
change  which  had  taken  place  during  such  a  brief 
absence.  He  was  the  same  Boleslas  Gorka,  that  hand- 
some man,  that  admirable  human  animal,  so  refined 
and  so  strong,  in  which  was  embodied  centuries  of 
aristocracy  —  the  Counts  de  Gorka  belong  to  the 
ancient  house  of  Lodzia,  with  which  are  connected  so 
many  illustrious  Polish  families,  the  Opalenice-Opa- 
lenskis,  the  Bnin-Bninskis,  the  Ponin-Poniniskis  and 
many  others — but  his  checks  were  sunken  beneath 
his  long,  brown  beard,  in  which  were  glints  of  gold; 
his  eyes  were  heavy  as  if  from  wakeful  nights,  his  nos- 
trils were  pinched  and  his  face  was  pale.  The  travel- 
stains  upon  his  face  accentuated  the  alteration. 

Yet  the  native  elegance  of  that  face  and  form  gave 
grace  to  his  lassitude.  Boleslas,  in  the  vigorous  and 
supple  maturity  of  his  thirty-four  years,  realized  one 
of  those  types  of  manly  beauty  so  perfect  that  they 
resist  the  strongest  tests.  The  excesses  of  emotion, 
as  those  of  libertinism,  seem  only  to  invest  the  man 
with  a  new  prestige;  the  fact  is  that  the  novelist's 
room,  with  its  collection  of  books,  photographs,  en- 
6  [8i] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

gravings,  paintings  and  moldings,  invested  that  form, 
tortured  by  the  bitter  sufferings  of  passion,  with  a 
poesy  to  which  Dorsenne  could  not  remain  altogether 
insensible.  The  atmosphere,  impregnated  with  Rus- 
sian tobacco  and  the  bluish  vapor  which  filled  the 
room,  revealed  in  what  manner  the  betrayed  lover  had 
diverted  his  impatience,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  writ- 
ing-table a  cup  with  a  bacchanal  painted  in  red  on  a 
black  ground,  of  which  Julien  was  very  proud,  con- 
tained the  remains  of  about  thirty  cigarettes,  thrown 
aside  almost  as  soon  as  lighted.  Their  paper  ends 
had  been  gnawed  with  a  nervousness  which  betrayed 
the  young  man's  condition,  while  he  repeated,  in  a 
tone  so  sad  that  it  almost  called  forth  a  shudder: 

"Yes,  I  should  have  gone  mad." 

"Calm  yourself,  my  dear  Boleslas,  I  implore  you," 
replied  Dorsenne.  What  had  become  of  his  ill-humor  ? 
How  could  he  preserve  it  in  the  presence  of  a  person 
so  evidently  beside  himself?  Julien  continued,  speak- 
ing to  his  companion  as  one  speaks  to  a  sick  child: 
"Come,  be  seated.  Be  a  little  more  tranquil,  since  I 
am  here,  and  you  have  reason  to  count  on  my  friend- 
.ship.  Speak  to  me.  Explain  to  me  what  has  happened. 
If  ibcrc  is  any  advice  to  give  you,  I  am  ready.  I  am 
prc|>arcd  to  render  you  a  service.  My  God  !  In  what 
a  state  you  arc!" 

"Is  it  not  so?"  said  the  other,  with  a  sort  of  ironical 
[)ri(le.  Tt  was  sufficient  that  he  had  a  witness  of  his 
grief  for  him  to  display  it  with  secret  vanity.  "Is  it 
not  so?"  he  continued.  "Could  you  only  know  how 
I  have  suffered.     This  is  nothing,"  said  he,  alluding 

[82] 


COSMOPOLIS 

to  his  haggard  appearance.  "It  is  here  that  you 
should  read,"  he  struck  his  breast,  then  passing  his 
hands  over  his  brow  and  his  eyes,  as  if  to  exorcise  a 
nightmare.  "You  are  right.  I  must  be  calm,  or  I 
am  lost." 

After  a  prolonged  silence,  during  which  he  seemed 
to  have  gathered  together  his  thoughts  and  to  collect 
his  will,  for  his  voice  had  become  decided  and  sharp, 
he  began:  "You  know  that  I  am  here  unknown  to 
any  one,  even  to  my  wife." 

"  I  know  it, "  replied  Dorsenne.  "  I  have  just  left  the 
Countess.  This  morning  I  visited  the  Palais  Castagna 
with  her,  Hafner,  Madame  Maitland,  Florent  Chap- 
ron."  He  paused  and  added,  thinking  it  better  not 
to  lie  on  minor  points,  "Madame  Steno  and  Alba 
were  there,  too." 

"Any  one  else?"  asked  Boleslas,  with  so  keen  a 
glance  that  the  author  had  to  employ  all  his  strength 
to  reply: 

"No  one  else." 

There  was  a  silence  between  the  two  men. 

Dorsenne  anticipated  from  his  question  toward  what 
subject  the  conversation  was  drifting.  Gorka,  now 
lying  rather  than  sitting  upon  the  divan  in  the  small 
room,  appeared  like  a  beast  that,  at  any  moment, 
might  bound.  Evidently  he  had  come  to  Julien's  a 
prey  to  the  mad  desire  to  find  out  something,  which  is 
to  jealousy  what  thirst  is  to  certain  punishments. 
When  one  has  tasted  the  bitter  draught  of  certainty, 
one  does  not  suffer  less.  Yet  one  walks  toward  it, 
barefooted,  on  the  heated  pavement,  heedless  of  the 


PAUL  BOURGET 

heat.  The  motives  which  led  Boleslas  to  choose  the 
French  novehst  as  the  one  from  whom  to  obtain  his 
information,  demonstrated  that  the  feHne  character  of 
his  physiognomy  was  not  deceptive.  He  understood 
Dorsenne  much  better  than  Dorsenne  understood  him. 
He  knew  him  to  be  nervous,  on  the  one  hand,  and 
perspicacious  on  the  other.  If  there  was  an  intrigue 
between  IMaitland  and  INIadame  Steno,  Juhen  had 
surely  observed  it,  and,  approached  in  a  certain  manner, 
he  would  surely  betray  it.  Moreover — for  that  violent 
and  crafty  nature  abounded  in  perplexities — Boleslas, 
who  passionately  admired  the  author's  talent,  experi- 
enced a  sort  of  indefinable  attraction  in  exhibiting 
himself  before  him  in  the  role  of  a  frantic  lover.  He 
was  one  of  the  persons  who  would  have  his  photo- 
graph taken  on  his  deathbed,  so  much  importance 
did  he  attach  to  his  person.  He  would,  no  doubt, 
have  been  insulted,  if  the  author  of  Une  Eglogiie  Mon- 
daine  had  portrayed  in  a  book  himself  and  his  love 
for  Countess  Steno,  and  yet  he  had  only  approached 
the  author,  had  only  chosen  him  as  a  confidant  with 
the  vague  hope  of  impressing  him.  He  had  even 
thought  of  suggesting  to  him  some  creation  resembhng 
himself.  Yes,  Gorka  was  very  complex,  for  he  was  not 
contented  with  deceiving  his  wife,  he  allowed  the  con- 
fiding creature  to  form  a  friendship  with  the  daughter 
of  her  husband's  mistress.  Still,  he  deceived  her  with 
remorse,  and  had  never  ceased  bearing  her  an  afi"ection 
as  sorrowful  as  it  was  respectful.  But  it  required 
Dorsenne  to  admit  the  like  anomalies,  and  the  rare 
sensation  of  being  observed  in  his  passionate  frenzy 

[84] 


COSMOPOLIS 

attracted  the  young  man  to  some  one  who  was  at  once 
a  sure  confidant,  a  possible  portrayer,  a  moral  accom- 
plice. It  was  necessary  now,  but  it  would  not  be  an 
easy  matter,  to  make  of  him  his  involuntary  detective. 
"You  see,"  resumed  he  suddenly,  "to  what  miser- 
able, detailed  inquiries  I  have  descended,  I  who  always 
had  a  horror  of  espionage,  as  of  some  terrible  degra- 
dation. I  shall  question  you  frankly,  for  you  are  my 
friend.  And  what  a  friend !  I  intended  to  use  artifice 
with  you  at  first,  but  I  was  ashamed.  Passion  takes 
possession  of  me  and  distorts  me.  No  matter  what  in- 
famy presents  itself,  I  rush  into  it,  and  then  I  am  afraid. 
Yes,  I  am  afraid  of  myself!  But  I  have  suffered  so 
much!  You  do  not  understand?  Well!  Listen," 
continued  he,  covering  Dorsenne  with  one  of  those 
glances  so  scrutinizing  that  not  a  gesture,  not  a  quiver 
of  his  eyelids,  escaped  him,  "and  tell  me  if  you  have 
ever  imagined  for  one  of  your  romances  a  situation 
similar  to  mine.  You  remember  the  mortal  fear  in 
which  I  lived  last  winter,  with  the  presence  of  my 
brother-in-law,  and  the  danger  of  his  denouncing  me 
to  my  poor  Maud,  from  stupidity,  from  a  British  sense 
of  virtue,  from  hatred.  You  remember,  also,  what 
that  voyage  to  Poland  cost  me,  after  those  long  months 
of  anxiety  ?  The  press  of  affairs  and  the  illness  of  my 
aunt  coming  just  at  the  moment  when  I  was  freed 
from  Ardrahan,  inspired  me  with  miserable  forebod- 
ings. I  have  always  believed  in  presentiments.  I  had 
one.  I  was  not  mistaken.  From  the  first  letter  I  re- 
ceived— from  whom  you  can  guess — I  saw  that  there 
was  taking  place  in  Rome  something  which  threatened 

[85] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

me  in  what  I  held  dearest  on  earth,  in  that  love  for 
which  I  sacrificed  all,  toward  which  I  walked  by  tramp- 
Hng  on  the  noblest  of  hearts.  Was  Catherine  ceasing 
to  love  me  ?  When  one  has  spent  two  years  of  one's  life 
in  a  passion — and  what  years! — one  clings  to  it  with 
every  fibre !  I  will  spare  you  the  recital  of  those  first 
weeks  spent  in  going  here  and  there,  in  paying  visits  to 
relatives,  in  consulting  lawyers,  in  caring  for  my  sick 
aunt,  in  fulfilling  my  duty  toward  my  son,  since  the 
greater  part  of  the  fortune  will  go  to  him.  And  always 
with  this  firm  conviction:  She  no  longer  writes  to  me 
as  formerly,  she  no  longer  loves  me.  Ah!  if  I  could 
show  you  the  letter  she  wrote  when  I  was  absent  once 
before.  You  have  a  great  deal  of  talent,  Julien,  but 
you  have  never  composed  anything  more  beautiful." 

He  paused,  as  if  the  part  of  the  confession  he  was 
approaching  cost  him  a  great  effort,  while  Dorsenne 
interpolated : 

"A  change  of  tone  in  correspondence  is  not,  how- 
ever, sufhcient  to  explain  the  fever  in  which  I  see 
you." 

"No,"  resumed  Gorka,  "but  it  was  not  merely  a 
change  of  tone.  T  complained.  For  the  first  time  my 
complaint  found  no  echo.  I  threatened  to  cease  writ- 
ing. No  reply.  I  wrote  to  ask  forgiveness.  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  so  cold  that  in  my  turn  1  wrote  an  angry 
one.  Another  silence!  Ah!  You  can  imagine  the 
terrible  effect  {)rodure(l  upon  me  by  an  unsigned  letter 
which  T  received  fifteen  days  since.  It  arrived  one 
morning.  It  bore  the  Roman  postmark.  I  did  not 
recognize  the  handwriting.     1   oix-ned   it.     T  saw  two 

f  8^>  1 


COSMOPOLIS 

sheets  of  paper  on  which  were  pasted  cuttings  from  a 
French  journal.  I  repeat  it  was  unsigned;  it  was  an 
anonymous  letter." 

"And  you  read  it?"  interrupted  Dorsenne.  "What 
folly!" 

*'I  read  it,"  replied  the  Count.  "It  began  with 
words  of  startling  truth  relative  to  my  own  situation. 
That  our  affairs  are  known  to  others  we  may  be  sure, 
since  we  know  theirs.  We  should,  consequently,  re- 
member that  we  are  at  the  mercy  of  their  indiscre- 
tion, as  they  are  at  ours.  The  beginning  of  the  note 
served  as  a  guarantee  of  the  truth  of  the  end,  which 
was  a  detailed,  minute  recital  of  an  intrigue  which 
Madame  Steno  had  been  carrying  on  during  my  ab- 
sence, and  with  whom  ?  With  the  man  whom  I  always 
mistrusted,  that  dauber  who  wanted  to  paint  Alba's 
portrait — but  whose  desires  I  nipped  in  the  bud — 
with  the  fellow  who  degraded  himself  by  a  shameful 
marriage  for  money,  and  who  calls  himself  an  artist 
— with  that  American — with  Lincoln  Maitland!" 

Although  the  childish  and  unjust  hatred  of  the  jealous 
— the  hatred  which  degrades  us  in  lowering  the  one 
we  love — had  poisoned  his  discourse  with  its  bitter- 
ness, he  did  not  cease  watching  Dorsenne.  He  partly 
raised  himself  on  the  couch  and  thrust  his  head  forward 
as  he  uttered  the  name  of  his  rival,  glancing  keenly 
at  the  novelist  meanwhile.  The  latter  fortunately 
had  been  rendered  indignant  at  the  news  of  the  anony- 
mous letter,  and  he  repeated,  with  an  astonishment 
which  in  no  way  aided  his  interlocutor: 

"What  infamy,  what  infamy!" 

[87] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"Wait,"  resumed  Boleslas;  "that  was  merely  a 
beginning.  The  next  day  I  received  another  letter, 
\\Titten  and  sent  under  the  same  conditions;  the  day 
after,  a  third.  I  have  twelve  of  them — do  you  hear? 
twelve — in  my  portfolio,  and  all  composed  with  the 
same  atrocious  knowledge  of  the  circle  in  which  we 
move,  as  was  the  first.  At  the  same  time  I  was  re- 
ceiving letters  from  my  poor  wife,  and  all  coincided, 
in  the  terrible  series,  in  a  frightful  concordance.  The 
anonymous  letter  told  me :  '  To-day  they  were  together 
two  hours  and  a  quarter,'  while  INIaud  wrote:  *I 
could  not  go  out  to-day,  as  agreed  upon,  with  Madame 
Steno,  for  she  had  a  headache.'  Then  the  portrait  of 
Alba,  of  which  they  told  me  incidentally.  The  anony- 
mous letters  detailed  to  me  the  events,  the  prolonga- 
tion of  sitting,  while  my  wife  wrote:  'We  again  went 
to  see  Alba's  portrait  yesterday.  The  painter  erased 
what  he  had  done. '  Finally  it  became  impossible  for 
me  to  endure  it.  With  their  abominable  minuteness 
of  detail,  the  anonymous  letters  gave  me  even  the  ad- 
dress of  their  rendezvous!  I  set  out.  I  said  to  my- 
self, 'If  I  announce  my  arrival  to  my  wife  they  will 
find  it  out,  they  will  escai)e  me.'  I  intended  to  sur- 
prise them.  I  wanted — Do  I  know  what  I  wanted? 
I  wanted  to  suffer  no  longer  the  agony  of  uncertainty. 
I  took  the  train.  I  stopped  neither  day  nor  night.  I 
left  my  valet  yesterday  in  Florence,  and  this  morning  I 
was  in  Rome. 

"My  jjlan  was  made  on  the  way.  I  would  hire 
a[)artments  near  theirs,  in  the  same  street,  perhaps  in 
the  same  house.     I  would  watcli  them,  one,  two  days, 

[88] 


COSMOPOLIS 

a  week.     And  then  —  would  you  believe  it?    It  was 
in  the  cab  which  was  bearing  me  directly  toward  that 
street  that  I  saw  suddenly,  clearly  within  me,  and  that 
I  was  startled.     I  had  my  hand  upon  this  revolver." 
He  drew  the  weapon  from    his  pocket  and    laid   it 
upon  the  divan,  as  if  he  wished  to  repulse  any  new 
temptation.     "I  saw  myself  as  plainly  as  I  see  you, 
killing  those  two  beings  like  two  animals,   should  I 
surprise  them.     At  the  same  time  I  saw  my  son  and 
my  wife.     Between  murder  and  me  there  was,  perhaps, 
just  the  distance  which  separated  me  from  the  street, 
and   I   felt  that  it   was  necessary   to  fly  at  once — to 
fly  that  street,  to  fly  from  the  guilty  ones,  if  they  were 
really  guilty;  to  fly  from  myself!     I  thought  of  you, 
and  I  have  come  to  say  to  you,  'My  friend,  this  is 
how  things  are;  I  am  drowning,  I  am  lost;  save  me.'" 
"You  have  yourself  found  the  salvation,"  replied 
Dorsenne.     "  It  is  in  your  son  and  your  wife.     See  them 
first,  and  if  I  can  not  promise  you  that  you  will  not  sufTer 
any  more,  you  will  no  longer  be  tempted  by  that  horri- 
ble idea. "    And  he  pointed  to  the  pistol,  which  gleamed 
in   the  sunlight   that  entered  through   the  casement. 
Then   he  added:     "And  you  will  have  the  idea  still 
less  when  you  will  have  been  able  to  prove  de  visu 
what  those  anonymous  letters  were  worth.     Twelve 
letters  in  fifteen  days,  and  cuttings  from  how  many 
papers?     And  they  claim  that  we  invent  heinousness 
in  our  books  !     If  you  like,  we  will  search  together  for 
the  person  who  can  have  elaborated  that  little  piece  of 
villany.    It  must  be  a  Judas,  a  Rodin,  an  lago— or  laga. 
But  this  is  not  the  moment   to  waste  in  hypotheses. 

[89] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

Are  you  sure  of  your  valet?  You  must  send  him  a 
despatch,  and  in  that  despatch  the  copy  of  another 
addressed  to  Madame  Gorka,  which  your  man  will 
send  this  very  evening.  You  will  announce  your  ar- 
rival for  to-morrow,  making  allusion  to  a  letter  written, 
so  to  speak,  from  Poland,  and  which  was  lost.  This 
evening  from  here  you  will  take  the  train  for  Florence, 
from  which  place  you  will  set  out  again  this  very  night. 
You  will  be  in  Rome  again  to-morrow  morning.  You 
will  have  avoided,  not  only  the  misfortune  of  having 
become  a  murderer,  though  you  would  not  have  sur- 
prised any  one,  I  am  sure,  but  the  much  more  grave 
misfortune  of  awakening  Madame  Gorka's  suspicions. 
Is  it  a  promise?" 

Dorsenne  rose  to  prepare  a  pen  and  paper:  "Come, 
write  the  despatch  immediately,  and  render  thanks  to 
your  good  genius  which  led  you  to  a  friend  whose 
business  consists  in  imagining  the  means  of  solving 
insoluble  situations." 

"You  are  quite  right,"  Boleslas  replied,  after  taking 
in  his  hand  the  pen  which  he  offered  to  the  other,  "it 
is  fortunate."  Then,  casting  aside  the  pen  as  he  had 
the  revolver,  "I  can  not.  No,  T  can  not,  as  long  as  I 
have  this  doubt  witliin  me.  Ah,  it  is  too  horrible! 
I  can  see  them  plainly.  You  speak  to  me  of  my  wife; 
but  you  forget  that  she  loves  me,  and  at  the  first  glance 
.she  would  read  me,  as  you  did.  You  can  not  imagine 
what  an  effort  it  has  cost  me  for  two  years  never  to 
arouse  .su.spicion.  I  was  happy,  and  it  is  easy  to 
deceive  when  one  has  nothing  to  hide  but  happiness. 
To-day  we  should  not  he  together  five  minutes  before 


COSMOPOLrS 

she  would  seek,  and  she  would  find.  No,  no;  I  can 
not.     I  need  something  more. " 

"Unfortunately,"  replied  Julien,  "I  can  not  give  it 
to  you.  There  is  no  opium  to  lull  asleep  doubts  such 
as  those  horrible  anonymous  letters  have  awakened. 
What  I  know  is  this,  that  if  you  do  not  follow  my 
advice  Madame  Gorka  will  not  have  a  suspicion,  but 
certainty.  It  is  now  perhaps  too  late.  Do  you  wish  me 
to  tell  you  what  I  concealed  from  you  on  seeing  you 
so  troubled?  You  did  not  lose  much  time  in  coming 
from  the  station  hither,  and  probably  you  did  not 
look  out  of  your  cab  twice.  But  you  were  seen.  By 
whom?  By  Montfanon.  He  told  me  so  this  morn- 
ing almost  on  the  threshold  of  the  Palais  Castagna.  If 
I  had  not  gathered  from  some  words  uttered  by  your 
wife  that  she  was  ignorant  of  your  presence  in  Rome, 
I — do  you  hear? — I  should  have  told  her  of  it.  Judge 
now  of  your  situation!" 

He  spoke  with  an  agitation  which  was  not  assumed, 
so  much  was  he  troubled  by  the  evidence  of  danger 
which  Gorka's  obstinacy  presented.  The  latter,  who 
had  begun  to  collect  himself,  had  a  strange  light  in 
his  eyes.  Without  doubt  his  companion's  nervous- 
ness marked  the  moment  he  was  awaiting  to  strike  a 
decisive  blow.  He  rose  with  so  sudden  a  start  that 
Dorsenne  drew  back.  He  seized  both  of  his  hands, 
but  with  such  force  that  not  a  quiver  of  the  muscles 
escaped  him: 

"Yes,  Julien,  you  have  the  means  of  consoling  me, 
you  have  it,"  said  he  in  a  voice  again  hoarse  with 
emotion. 

[91] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  novehst. 

"What  is  it?  You  are  an  honest  man,  Dorsenne; 
you  are  a  great  artist ;  you  are  my  friend,  and  a  friend 
alhed  to  me  by  a  sacred  bond,  almost  a  brother-in- 
arms; you,  the  grand-nephew  of  a  hero  who  shed  his 
blood  by  the  side  of  my  grandfather  at  Somo-Sierra. 
Give  me  your  word  of  honor  that  you  are  absolutely 
certain  Madame  Steno  is  not  Maitland's  mistress, 
that  you  never  thought  it,  have  never  heard  it  said, 
and  I  will  believe  you,  I  will  obey  you!  Come," 
continued  he,  pressing  the  writer's  hand  with  more 
fervor,  "I  see  you  hesitate!" 

"No,"  said  Julien,  disengaging  himself  from  the 
wild  grasp,  "I  do  not  hesitate.  I  am  sorry  for  you. 
Were  I  to  give  you  that  word,  would  it  have  any 
weight  with  you  for  five  minutes?  Would  "you  not  be 
persuaded  immediately  that  I  was  perjuring  myself  to 
avoid  a  misfortune?" 

"You  hesitate,"  interrupted  Boleslas.  Then,  with 
a  burst  of  wild  laughter,  he  said,  "It  is  then  true!  I 
like  that  better!  It  is  frightful  to  know  it,  but  one 
suffers  less —  To  know  it!  As  if  I  did  not  know 
she  had  lovers  before  me,  as  if  it  were  not  written  on 
Alba's  every  feature  that  she  is  Werekiew's  child,  as 
if  I  had  not  heard  it  said  seventy  times  before  knowing 
her  that  she  had  loved  Branciforte,  San  GioJDbe,  Stra- 
bane,  ten  others.  Before,  during,  or  after,  what  dif- 
ference does  it  make?  Ah,  I  was  sure  on  knocking 
at  your  door — at  this  door  of  honor — I  should  liear 
the  truth,  that  I  woukl  touch  it  as  I  touch  this  object," 
and  he  laid  his  hand  uj)()n  a  marble  bust  on  the  table. 

[92I 


COSMOPOLIS 

"You  sec  I  hear  it  like  a  man.  You  can  speak  to  me 
now.  Who  knows?  Disgust  is  a  great  cure  for  pas- 
sion.    I  will  listen  to  you.     Do  not  spare  me!" 

"You  are  mistaken,  Gorka, "  replied  Dorsenne. 
"What  I  have  to  say  to  you,  I  can  say  very  simply. 
I  was,  and  I  am,  convinced  that  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
in  an  hour,  to-morrow,  the  day  after,  you  will  consid- 
er me  a  liar  or  an  imbecile.  But,  since  you  misin- 
terpreted my  silence,  it  is  my  duty  to  speak,  and  I 
do  so.  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  I  have  never 
had  the  least  suspicion  of  a  connection  between  Ma- 
dame Steno  and  Maitland,  nor  have  their  relations 
seemed  changed  to  me  for  a  second  since  your  absence. 
I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  no  one,  do  you 
hear,  no  one  has  spoken  of  it  to  me.  And,  now,  act 
as  you  please,  think  as  you  please.  I  have  said  all  I 
can  say." 

The  novelist  uttered  those  words  with  a  feverish 
energy  which  was  caused  by  the  terrible  strain  he  was 
making  upon  his  conscience.  But  Gorka's  laugh  had 
terrified  him  so  much  the  more  as  at  the  same  instant 
the  jealous  lover's  disengaged  hand  was  voluntarily 
or  involuntarily  extended  toward  the  weapon  which 
gleamed  upon  the  couch.  The  vision  of  an  immediate 
catastrophe,  this  time  inevitable,  rose  before  Julien. 
His  lips  had  spoken,  as  his  arm  would  have  been  out- 
stretched, by  an  irresistible  instinct,  to  save  several 
lives,  and  he  had  made  the  false  statement,  the  first 
and  no  doubt  the  last  in  his  life,  without  reflecting. 
He  had  no  sooner  uttered  it  than  he  experienced  such 
an  excess  of  anger  that  he  would  at  that  moment  almost 

[93] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

have  preferred  not  to  be  believed.  It  would  indeed 
have  been  a  comfort  to  him  if  his  visitor  had  replied 
by  one  of  those  insulting  negations  which  permit  one 
man  to  strike  another,  so  great  was  his  irritation.  On 
the  contrary,  he  saw  the  face  of  Madame  Steno's  lover 
turned  toward  him  with  an  expression  of  gratitude 
upon  it.  Boleslas's  lips  quivered,  his  hands  were 
clasped,  two  large  tears  gushed  from  his  burning  eyes 
and  rolled  down  his  cheeks.  When  he  was  able  to 
speak,  he  moaned : 

''Ah,  my  friend,  how  much  good  you  have  done 
mc  !  From  what  a  nightmare  you  have  relieved  me. 
Ah!  Now  I  am  saved!  I  believe  you,  I  believe 
you.  You  are  intimate  with  them.  You  see  them 
every  day.  If  there  had  been  anything  between  them 
you  would  know  it.  You  would  have  heard  it  talked 
of.  Ah!  Thanks!  Give  me  your  hand  that  I  may 
press  it.  Forget  all  I  said  to  you  just  now,  the  slander 
I  uttered  in  a  moment  of  delirium.  I  know  very 
well  it  was  untrue.  And  now,  let  mc  embrace  you 
as  I  wouki  if  you  had  really  saved  me  from  drown- 
ing.    Ah,  my  friend,  my  only  friend!" 

And  lie  ruslu'd  up  to  clasp  to  his  l)os()m  the  novelist, 
who  replied  with  the  words  uttered  at  the  beginning 
of  this  conversation:  "Calm  yourself,  I  beseech  you, 
calm  yourself!"  and  repeating  to  himself,  brave  and 
loyal  man  that  lie  was:  "I  could  not  act  differently, 
but  it  is  hard!" 


[94] 


CHAPTER  IV 

APPROACHING   DANGER 

;0,  I  could  not  act  differently,"  re- 
peated Dorsenne  on  the  evening  of 
that  eventful  day.  He  had  given  his 
entire  afternoon  to  caring  for  Gorka. 
He  made  him  lunch.  He  made  him 
He  down.  He  watched  him.  He 
took  him  in  a  closed  carriage  to  Por- 
tonaccio,  the  first  stopping-place  on 
the  Florence  line.  Indeed,  he  made  every  effort  not 
to  leave  alone  for  a  moment  the  man  whose  frenzy  he 
had  rather  suspended  than  appeased,  at  the  price, 
alas,  of  his  own  peace  of  mind !  For,  once  left  alone,  in 
solitude  and  in  the  apartments  on  the  Place  de  la  Trin- 
ite,  where  twenty  details  testified  to  the  visit  of  Gorka, 
the  weight  of  the  perjured  word  of  honor  became  a 
heavy  load  to  the  novelist,  so  much  the  more  heaw 
when  he  discovered  the  calculating  plan  followed  by 
Boleslas.  His  tardy  penetration  permitted  him  to  re- 
view the  general  outline  of  their  conversation.  He 
perceived  that  not  one  of  his  interlocutor's  sentences, 
n^t  even  the  most  agitated,  had  been  uttered  at  ran- 
dom. From  reply  to  reply,  from  confidence  to  con- 
fidence, he,  Dorsenne,  had  become  involved  in  the 
dilemma  without  being  able  to  foresee  or  to  avoid  it; 

[95] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

he  would  either  have  had  to  accuse  a  woman  or  to  He 
with  one  of  those  hes  which  a  manly  conscience  does 
not  easily  pardon.     He  did  not  forgive  himself  for  it. 

"It  is  so  much  worse,"  said  he  to  himself,  ''as  it 
will  prevent  nothing.  A  person  vile  enough  to  pen 
anonymous  letters  will  not  stop  there.  She  will  find 
the  means  of  again  unchaining  the  madman.  .  .  .  But 
who  wrote  those  letters?  Gorka  may  have  forged 
them  in  order  to  have  an  opportunity  to  ask  me  the 
question  he  did.  .  .  .  And  yet,  no.  .  .  .  There  are  two 
indisputable  facts— his  state  of  jealousy  and  his  ex- 
traordinary return.  Both  would  lead  one  to  suppose 
a  third,  a  warning.  But  given  by  whom  ?  ...  He  told 
me  of  twelve  anonymous  letters.  ...  Let  us  assume 
that  he  received  one  or  two.  .  .  .  But  who  is  the  author 
of  those?" 

The  immediate  development  of  the  drama  in  which 
Julien  found  himself  involved  was  embodied  in  the 
answer  to  the  question.  It  was  not  easy  to  formulate. 
The  Italians  have  a  proverb  of  singular  depth  which 
the  novelist  recalled  at  that  moment.  He  had  laughed 
a  great  deal  when  he  heard  sententious  Egiste  Bran- 
cadori  repeat  it.  He  repeated  it  to  himself,  and  he 
understood  its  meaning.  Chi  non  sa  fingcrsi  amico, 
non  sa  essere  nemico.  "  He  who  does  not  know  how  to 
di.sguisc  himself  as  a  friend,  does  not  know  how  to  be 
an  enemy."  In  the  little  corner  of  society  in  which 
Countess  Steno,  the  Gorkas  and  Lincoln  Maitland 
moved,  who  was  hypocritical  and  spiteful  enough  to 
practise  that  counsel  ? 

"It  is  not  Madame  Sleno,"  thought  Julien;  "she has 

I  9^'  ] 


COSMOPOLIS 

related  all  herself  to  her  lover.  I  knew  a  similar  case. 
But  it  involved  degraded  Parisians,  not  a  Dogesse 
of  the  sixteenth  century  found  intact  in  the  Venice 
of  to-day,  like  a  flower  of  that  period  preserved.  Let 
us  strike  her  ofT.  Let  us  strike  off,  too,  Madame 
Gorka,  the  truthful  creature  who  could  not  even  con- 
descend to  the  smallest  lie  for  a  trinket  which  she 
desires.  It  is  that  which  renders  her  so  easily  de- 
ceived. What  irony!  .  .  .  Let  us  strike  off  Florent. 
He  would  allow  himself  to  be  killed,  if  necessary,  like 
a  Mameluke  at  the  door  of  the  room  where  his  genial 
brother-in-law  was  dallying  with  the  Countess.  .  .  . 
Let  us  strike  off  the  American  himself.  I  have  met 
such  a  case,  a  lover  weary  of  a  mistress,  denouncing 
himself  to  her  in  order  to  be  freed  from  his  love-affair. 
But  he  was  a  roue,  and  had  nothing  in  common  with 
this  booby,  who  has  a  talent  for  painting  as  an  elephant 
has  a  trunk — what  irony!  He  married  this  octoroon 
to  have  money.  But  it  was  a  base  act  which  freed 
him  from  commerce,  and  permitted  him  to  paint  all 
he  wanted,  as  he  wanted.  He  allows  Steno  to  love 
him  because  she  is  diabolically  pretty,  notwithstanding 
her  forty  years,  and  then  she  is,  in  spite  of  all,  a  real 
noblewoman,  which  flattered  him.  He  has  not  one 
dollar's  worth  of  moral  delicacy  in  his  heart.  But  he 
has  an  abundance  of  knavery.  .  .  Let  us,  too,  strike 
out  his  wife.  She  is  such  a  veritable  slave  whom  the 
mere  presence  of  a  white  person  annihilates  to  such 
a  degree  that  she  dares  not  look  her  husband  in  the 
face.  ...  It  is  not  Hafner.  The  sly  fox  is  capable  of 
doing  anything  by  cunning,  but  is  he  capable  of  under- 
7  [97] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

taking  a  useless  and  dangerous  piece  of  rascality? 
Never.  .  .  .  Fanny  is  a  saint  escaped  from  the  Golden 
Legend,  no  matter  what  Montfanon  thinks!  I  have 
now  reviewed  the  entire  coterie.  ...  I  was  about  to 
forget  Alba.  ...  It  is  too  absurd  even  to  think  of 
her.  .  .  .  Too  absurd?     Why?" 

Dorsenne  was,  on  formulating  that  fantastic  thought, 
upon  the  point  of  retiring.  He  took  up,  as  was  his 
habit,  one  of  the  books  on  his  table,  in  order  to  read  a 
few  pages,  when  once  in  bed.  He  had  thus  within 
his  reach  the  works  by  which  he  strengthened  his  doc- 
trine of  intransitive  intellectuality;  they  were  Goethe's 
Memoirs;  a  volume  of  George  Sand's  correspondence, 
in  which  were  the  letters  to  Flaubert;  the  Discours  de 
la  Methode  by  Descartes,  and  the  essay  by  Burckhart 
on  the  Renaissance. 

But,  after  turning  over  the  leaves  of  one  of  those 
volumes,  he  closed  it  without  having  read  twenty  lines. 
He  extinguished  his  lamp,  but  he  could  not  sleep.  The 
strange  suspicion  which  crossed  his  mind  had  some- 
thing monstrous  about  it,  applied  thus  to  a  young  girl. 
What  a  suspicion  and  what  a  young  girl!  The  pre- 
ferred friend  of  his  entire  winter,  she  on  whose  account 
he  had  prolonged  his  stay  in  Rome,  for  she  was  the 
most  graceful  vision  of  delicacy  and  of  melancholy  in 
the  framework  of  a  tragical  and  solemn  j)ast.  Any 
other  than  Dorsenne  would  not  have  admitted  such 
an  idea  without  being  inspired  with  horror.  But  Dor- 
senne, on  the  contrary,  suddenly  began  to  dive  into 
that  sinister  hypothesis,  to  help  it  forward,  to  justify 
it      No  one  more  than  he  suffered  from  a  moral  de- 

[98] 


COSMOPOLIS 

formity  which  the  abuse  of  a  certain  Hterary  work 
inflicts  on  some  writers.  They  are  so  much  accus- 
tomed to  combining  artificial  characters  with  creations 
of  their  imaginations  that  they  constantly  fulfil  an 
analogous  need  with  regard  to  the  individuals  they 
know  best.  They  have  some  friend  who  is  dear  to 
them,  whom  they  see  almost  daily,  who  hides  nothing 
from  them  and  from  whom  they  hide  nothing.  But 
if  they  speak  to  you  of  him  you  are  surprised  to  find 
that,  while  continuing  to  love  that  friend,  they  trace  to 
you  in  him  two  contradictory  portraits  with  the  same 
sincerity  and  the  same  probability. 

They  have  a  mistress,  and  that  woman,  even  in  the 
space  sometimes  of  one  day,  sees  them,  with  fear,  change 
toward  her,  who  has  remained  the  same.  It  is  that 
they  have  developed  in  them  to  a  very  intense  degree 
the  imagination  of  the  human  soul,  and  that  to  observe 
is  to  them  only  a  pretext  to  construe.  That  infirmity 
had  governed  Julicn  from  early  maturity.  It  was 
rarely  manifested  in  a  manner  more  unexpected  than 
in  the  case  of  charming  Alba  Steno,  who  was  possibly 
dreaming  of  him  at  the  very  moment  when,  in  the 
silence  of  the  night,  he  was  forcing  himself  to  prove 
that  she  was  capable  of  that  species  of  epistolary  par- 
ricide. 

"After  all,"  he  said  to  himself,  for  there  is  icono- 
clasm  in  the  excessively  intellectual,  and  they  delight 
in  destroying  their  dearest  moral  or  sentimental  idols, 
the  better  to  prove  their  strength,  ''after  all,  have  I 
really  understood  her  relations  toward  her  mother? 
When  I  came  to  Rome  in  November,  when  I  was  to 

[99] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

be  presented  to  the  Countess,  what  did  not  only  one, 
but  nine  or  ten  persons  tell  me  ?  That  Madame  Steno 
had  a  liaison  with  the  husband  of  her  daughter's  best 
friend,  and  that  the  Kttle  one  was  grieving  about  it.  I 
went  to  the  house.  I  saw  the  child.  She  was  sad  that 
evening.  I  had  the  curiosity  to  wish  to  read  her  heart. 
...  It  is  six  months  since  then.  We  have  met  almost 
daily,  often  twice  a  day.  She  is  so  hermetically  sealed 
that  I  am  no  farther  advanced  than  I  was  on  the  first 
day.  I  have  seen  her  glance  at  her  mother  as  she 
did  this  morning,  with  loving,  admiring  eyes.  I  have 
seen  her  turn  pale  at  a  word,  a  gesture,  on  her  part. 
I  have  seen  her  embrace  Maud  Gorka,  and  play  ten- 
nis with  that  same  friend  so  gayly,  so  innocently.  I 
have  seen  that  she  could  not  bear  the  presence  of 
Maitland  in  a  room,  and  yet  she  asked  the  American 
to  take  her  portrait.  .  .  Is  she  guileless?  .  .  Is  she 
a  hypocrite?  Or  is  she  tormented  by  doubt — divin- 
ing, not  divining — believing,  not  believing  in — her 
mother?  Is  she  underhand  in  any  case,  with  her  eyes 
the  color  of  the  sea?  Has  she  the  ambiguous  mind 
at  once  of  a  Russian  and  an  Italian  ?  .  .  .  This  would 
be  a  solution  of  the  problem,  that  she  was  a  girl  of 
extraordinary  inward  energy,  who,  both  aware  of  her 
mother's  intrigues  and  detesting  them  with  an  equal 
hatred,  had  j)lanned  to  precipitate  the  two  men  uj)on 
each  otluT.  I'V)r  a  young  girl  the  undertaking  is  great. 
I  will  go  to  llic  Countess's  to-morrow  night,  and  I  will 
amuse  myself  by  watching  Alba,  to  see.  .  .  If  she  is 
innocent,  my  deed  will  be  inoffensive.  If  perchance 
she  is  nf>t  ?  ..." 

I  'oo] 


COSMOPOLIS 

It  is  vain  to  profess  to  one's  own  heart  a  complaisant 
dandyism  of  misanthropy.  Such  reflections  leave  be- 
hind them  a  tinge  of  a  remorse,  above  all  when  they 
are,  as  these,  absolutely  whimsical  and  founded  on  a 
simple  paradox  of  dilettantism.  Dorsenne  experienced 
a  feeling  of  shame  when  he  awoke  the  following  morn- 
ing, and,  thinking  of  the  mystery  of  the  letters  received 
by  Gorka,  he  recalled  the  criminal  romance  he  had 
constructed  around  the  charming  and  tender  form  of 
his  little  friend;  happily  for  his  nerves,  which  were 
strained  by  the  consideration  of  the  formidable  prob- 
lem. If  it  is  not  some  one  in  the  Countess's  circle, 
who  has  written  those  letters?  He  received,  on  rising, 
a  voluminous  package  of  proofs  with  the  inscription: 
"Urgent."  He  was  preparing  to  give  to  the  pubhc  a 
collection  of  his  first  articles,  under  the  title  of  Pous- 
siere  d' I  dees. 

Dorsenne  was  a  faithful  literary  worker.  Usually, 
involved  titles  serve  to  hide  in  a  book-stall  shop-made 
goods,  and  romance  writers  or  dramatic  authors  who 
pride  themselves  on  living  to  WTite,  and  who  seek 
inspiration  elsewhere  than  in  regularity  of  habits  and 
the  work-table,  have  their  efforts  marked  from  the  first 
by  sterility.  Obscure  or  famous,  rich  or  poor,  an  artist 
must  be  an  artisan  and  practise  these  fruitful  virtues 
— patient  application,  conscientious  technicality,  ab- 
sorption in  work.  When  he  seated  himself  at  his 
table  Dorsenne  was  heart  and  soul  in  his  business. 
He  closed  his  door,  he  opened  no  letters  nor  telegrams, 
and  he  spent  ten  hours  without  taking  anything  but 
two  eggs  and  some  black  coffee,  as  he  did  on  this 

[lOl] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

particular  day,  when  looking  over  the  essays  of  his 
twenty-fifth  year  with  the  talent  of  his  thirty-fifth,  re- 
touching here  a  word,  rewriting  an  entire  page,  dis- 
satisfied here,  smiling  there  at  his  thought.  The  pen 
flew,  carrying  with  it  all  the  sensibility  of  the  intel- 
lectual man  who  had  completely  forgotten  Madame 
Steno,  Gorka,  Maitland,  and  the  calumniated  Contes- 
sina,  until  he  should  awake  from  his  lucid  intoxication 
at  nightfall.  As  he  counted,  in  arranging  the  slips, 
the  number  of  articles  prepared,  he  found  there  were 
twelve. 

"Like  Gorka's  letters,"  said  he  aloud,  with  a  laugh. 
He  now  felt  coursing  through  his  veins  the  lightness 
which  all  writers  of  his  kind  feel  when  they  have 
labored  on  a  work  they  believe  good.  "I  have  earned 
my  evening,"  he  added,  still  in  a  loud  voice.  "I  must 
now  dress  and  go  to  Madame  Steno's.  A  good  dinner 
at  the  doctor's.  A  half-hour's  walk.  The  night  prom- 
ises to  be  divine.  I  shall  find  out  if  they  have  news 
of  the  Palatine,''^ — the  name  he  gave  Gorka  in  his 
moments  of  gayety.  "I  shall  talk  in  a  loud  voice  of 
anonymous  letters.  If  the  author  of  those  received 
by  Boleslas  is  there,  I  shall  be  in  the  best  position  to 
discover  him;  provided  that  it  is  not  Alba.  .  .  De- 
cidedly- that  would  be  .sad!"  .  .  . 

It  was  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening,  when  the  young 
man,  faithful  to  his  programme,  arrived  at  the  door  of 
the  large  hou.se  on  the  Rue  du  Vingt  Septembrc  occu- 
pied by  Madame  Steno.  It  was  an  immense  modern 
structure,  (]ivi(k'(l  into  two  di.stinct  parts;  to  the  left  a 
revenue  building  and  to  the  right  a  house  on  the  order 

[   102] 


COSMO  POLIS 

of  those  which  are  to  be  seen  on  the  borders  of  Park 
Monceau.  The  Villa  Steno,  as  the  inscription  in  gold 
upon  the  black  marble  door  indicated,  told  the  entire 
story  of  the  Countess's  fortune — that  fortune  appraised 
by  rumor,  with  its  habitual  exaggeration,  now  at  twenty, 
now  at  thirty,  millions.  She  had  in  reality  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  francs'  income.  But  as,  in 
1873,  Count  Michel  Steno,  her  husband,  died,  leaving 
only  debts,  a  partly  ruined  palace  at  Venice  and  much 
property  heavily  mortgaged,  the  amount  of  that  income 
proved  the  truth  of  the  title,  "superior  woman,"  ap- 
plied by  her  friends  to  Alba's  mother.  Her  friends 
likewise  added:  "She  has  been  the  mistress  of  Haf- 
ner,  who  has  aided  her  with  his  financial  advice,"  an 
atrocious  slander  which  was  so  much  the  more  false 
as  it  was  before  ever  knowing  the  Baron  that  she  had  be- 
gun to  amass  her  wealth.  This  is  how  she  managed  it: 
At  the  close  of  1873,  when,  as  a  young  widow,  living 
in  retirement  in  the  sumptuous  and  ruined  dwelling 
on  the  Grand  Canal,  she  was  struggling  with  her  cred- 
itors, one  of  the  largest  bankers  in  Rome  came  to 
propose  to  her  a  very  advantageous  scheme.  It  dealt 
with  a  large  piece  of  land  which  belonged  to  the  Steno 
estate,  a  piece  of  land  in  Rome,  in  one  of  the  suburbs, 
between  the  Porta  Salara  and  the  Porta  Pia,  a  sort 
of  village  which  the  deceased  Cardinal  Steno,  Count 
Michel's  uncle,  had  begun  to  lay  out.  After  his  demise, 
the  land  had  been  rented  in  lots  to  kitchen-gardeners, 
and  it  was  estimated  that  it  was  worth  about  forty 
centimes  a  square  metre.  The  financier  offered  four 
francs  for  it,  under  the  pretext  of  establishing  a  factory 

[103] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

on  the  site.  It  was  a  large  sum  of  money.  The 
Countess  required  twenty-four  hours  in  which  to  con- 
sider, and,  at  the  end  of  that  time,  she  refused  the 
offer,  which  won  for  her  the  admiration  of  the  men  of 
business  who  knew  of  the  refusal.  In  1882,  less  than 
ten  years  later,  she  sold  the  same  land  for  ninety  francs 
a  metre.  She  saw,  on  glancing  at  a  plan  of  Rome, 
and  in  recalling  the  history  of  modern  Italy,  first,  that 
the  new  masters  of  the  Eternal  City  would  centre  all 
their  ambition  in  rebuilding  it,  then  that  the  portion 
comprised  between  the  Quirinal  and  the  two  gates  of 
Salara  and  Pia  would  be  one  of  the  principal  points 
of  development;  finally,  that  if  she  waited  she  would 
obtain  a  much  greater  sum  than  the  first  offer.  And 
she  had  waited,  applying  herself  to  watching  the  ad- 
ministration of  her  possessions  like  the  severest  of 
intendants,  depriving  herself,  stopping  up  gaps  with 
unhoped-for  profits.  In  1875,  she  sold  to  the  National 
Gallery  a  suite  of  four  panels  by  Carpaccio,  found  in 
one  of  her  country  houses,  for  one  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  francs.  She  had  been  as  active  and  practi- 
cal in  her  material  life  as  she  had  been  light  and  au- 
dacious in  her  sentimental  experiences.  The  story  cir- 
culated of  her  infidelity  to  Steno  with  Werekiew  at  St. 
Petersburg,  where  the  diplomatist  was  stationed,  after 
one  year  of  marriage,  was  confirmed  by  the  wanton- 
ness of  her  conduct,  of  which  she  gave  evidence  as 
soon  as  free. 

At  Rome,  where  she  lived  a  portion  of  the  year  after 
the  sale  of  her  land,  out  of  which  she  retained  enough 
to  build  the  double  hou.se,  she  continued  to  increase 

[  104  1 


COSMOPOLIS 

her  fortune  with  the  same  intelligence.  A  very  ad- 
vantageous investment  in  Acqua  Marcia  enabled  her 
to  double  in  five  years  the  enormous  profits  of  her 
first  operation.  And  what  proved  still  more  the  excep- 
tional good  sense  with  which  the  woman  was  endowed, 
when  love  was  not  in  the  balance,  she  stopped  on 
those  two  gains,  just  at  the  time  when  the  Roman 
aristocracy,  possessed  by  the  delirium  of  speculation, 
had  begun  to  buy  stocks  which  had  reached  their 
highest  value. 

To  spend  the  evening  at  the  Villa  Steno,  after  spend- 
ing all  the  morning  of  the  day  before  at  the  Palais  Cas- 
tagna,  was  to  realize  one  of  those  paradoxes  of  contra- 
dictory sensations  such  as  Dorsenne  loved,  for  poor 
Ardea  had  been  ruined  in  having  attempted  to  do  a 
few  years  later  that  which  Countess  Catherine  had 
done  at  the  proper  mioment.  He,  too,  had  hoped  for 
an  increase  in  the  value  of  property.  Only  he  had 
bought  the  land  at  seventy  francs  a  metre,  and  in  'go 
it  was  not  worth  more  than  twenty-five.  He,  too,  had 
calculated  that  Rome  would  improve,  and  on  the  high- 
priced  land  he  had  begun  to  build  entire  streets, 
imagining  he  could  become  like  the  Dukes  of  Bedford 
and  of  Westminster  in  London,  the  owner  of  whole 
districts.  His  houses  finished,  they  did  not  rent,  how- 
ever. To  complete  the  rest  he  had  to  borrow.  He 
speculated  in  order  to  pay  his  debts,  lost,  and  con- 
tracted more  debts  in  order  to  pay  the  difference.  His 
signature,  as  the  proprietor  of  the  Marzocco  had  said, 
was  put  to  innumerable  bills  of  exchange.  The  result 
was  that  on  all  the  walls  of  Rome,  including  that  of  the 

[105] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

Rue  Vingt  Septembre  on  which  was  the  Villa  Steno, 
were  posted  multi-colored  placards  announcing  the  sale, 
under  the  management  of  Cavalier  Fossati,  of  the  col- 
lection of  art  and  of  furniture  of  the  Palais  Castagna. 

"To  foresee  is  to  possess  power,"  said  Dorsenne 
to  himself,  ringing  at  Madame  Steno's  door  and  sum- 
ming up  thus  the  invincible  association  of  ideas  which 
recalled  to  him  the  palace  of  the  ruined  Roman  Prince 
at  the  door  of  the  villa  of  the  triumphant  Venetian: 
''It  is  the  real  Alpha  and  Omega." 

The  comparison  between  the  lot  of  Madame  Steno 
and  that  of  the  heir  of  the  Castagnas  had  almost 
caused  the  writer  to  forget  his  plan  of  inquiry  as  to  the 
author  of  the  anonymous  letters.  It  was  to  be  im- 
pressed upon  him,  however,  when  he  entered  the  hall 
where  the  Countess  received  every  evening.  Ardea 
himself  was  there,  the  centre  of  a  group  composed  of 
Alba  Steno,  Madame  Maitland,  Fanny  Hafner  and 
the  wealthy  Baron,  who,  standing  aloof  and  erect, 
leaning  against  a  console,  seemed  like  a  beneficent  and 
venerable  man  in  the  act  of  blessing  youth.  Julien 
was  not  surprised  on  finding  so  few  persons  in  the  vast 
salon,  any  more  than  he  was  surprised  at  the  aspect  of 
the  room  filled  with  old  tapestry,  bric-a-brac,  furniture, 
flowers,  and  divans  with  innumerable  cushions. 

He  had  had  the  entire  winter  in  which  to  observe 
the  interior  of  that  house,  similar  to  hundreds  of  others 
in  Vienna,  Madrid,  Florence,  Berlin,  anywhere,  indeed, 
where  the  mistress  of  the  house  applies  herself  to  real- 
izing an  ideal  of  Parisian  luxury.  He  had  amused 
himself  many  an  evening  in  separating  from  the  almost 

[106I 


COSMOPOLIS 

international  framework  local  features,  those  which 
distinguished  the  room  from  others  of  the  same  kind. 
No  human  being  succeeds  in  being  absolutely  factitious 
in  his  home  or  in  his  writings.  The  author  had  thus 
noted  that  the  salon  bore  a  date,  that  of  the  Countess's 
last  journey  to  Paris  in  1880.  It  was  to  be  seen  in  the 
plush  and  silk  of  the  curtains.  The  general  coloring, 
in  which  green  predominated,  a  liberty  egotistical  in 
so  brilliant  a  blonde,  had  too  warm  a  tone  and  be- 
trayed the  Italian.  Italy  was  also  to  be  found  in  the 
painted  ceiling  and  in  the  frieze  which  ran  all  around, 
as  well  as  in  several  paintings  scattered  about.  There 
were  two  panels  by  Moretti  de  Brescia  in  the  second 
style  of  the  master,  called  his  silvery  manner,  on  ac- 
count of  the  delicate  and  transparent  fluidity  of  the 
coloring ;  a  Souper  chez  le  Pharisien  and  a  Jesus  res- 
suscite  stir  le  rivage,  which  could  only  have  come  from 
one  of  the  very  old  palaces  of  a  very  ancient  family. 
Dorsenne  knew  all  that,  and  he  knew,  too,  for  what 
reasons  he  found  almost  empty  at  that  time  of  the 
year  the  hall  so  animated  during  the  entire  winter,  the 
hall  through  which  he  had  seen  pass  a  veritable  car- 
nival of  visitors:  great  lords,  artists,  political  men, 
Russians  and  Austrians,  English  and  French — pell- 
mell.  The  Countess  was  far  from  occupying  in  Rome 
the  social  position  which  her  intelligence,  her  fortune 
and  her  name  should  have  assured  her.  For,  having 
been  born  a  Navagero,  she  combined  on  her  escutcheon 
the  cross  of  gold  of  the  Sebastien  Navagero  who  was 
the  first  to  mount  the  walls  of  Lepante,  with  the  star 
of  the  grand  Doge  INIichcl. 

[107I 


PAUL  BOURGET 

But  one  particular  trait  of  character  had  always 
prevented  her  from  succeeding  on  that  point.  She 
could  not  bear  ennui  nor  constraint,  nor  had  she  any 
vanity.  She  was  positive  and  impassioned,  in  the 
manner  of  the  men  of  wealth  to  whom  their  meditated- 
upon  combinations  serve  to  assure  the  conditions  of 
their  pleasures.  Never  had  Madame  Steno  displayed 
diplomacy  in  the  changes  of  her  passions,  and  they 
had  been  numerous  before  the  arrival  of  Gorka,  to 
whom  she  had  remained  faithful  two  years,  an  almost 
incomprehensible  thing  !  Never  had  she,  save  in  her 
own  home,  observed  the  slightest  bounds  when  there 
was  a  question  of  reaching  the  object  of  her  desire. 
Moreover,  she  had  not  in  Rome  to  support  her  any 
member  of  the  family  to  which  she  belonged,  and  she 
had  not  joined  either  of  the  two  sets  into  which,  since 
1870,  the  society  of  the  city  was  divided.  Of  too 
modern  a  mind  and  of  a  manner  too  bold,  she  had  not 
been  received  by  the  admirable  woman  who  reigns  at 
the  Quirinal,  and  who  had  managed  to  gather  around 
her  an  atmosphere  of  such  noble  elevation. 

These  causes  would  have  brought  about  a  sort  of 
semi-ostracism,  had  the  Countess  not  applied  herself 
to  forming  a  salon  of  her  own,  the  recruits  for  which 
were  almost  altogether  foreigners.  The  sight  of  new 
faces,  the  variety  of  conversation,  the  freedom  of  man- 
ner, all  in  that  moving  world,  pleased  the  thirst  for 
diversion  which,  in  that  i)uissant,  spontaneous,  and 
almost  manly  immoral  nature,  was  joined  with  very 
just  clear-siglitcdncss.  If  Julicn  paused  for  a  moment 
surprised  at  the  door  of  tlie  hall,  it  was  not,  therefore, 

[108  J 


COSMOPOLIS 

on  finding  it  empty  at  the  end  of  the  season;  it  was 
on  beholding  there,  among  the  inmates,  Peppino 
Ardea,  whom  he  had  not  met  all  winter.  Truly,  it 
was  a  strange  time  to  appear  in  new  scenes  when  the 
hammer  of  the  appraiser  was  already  raised  above  all 
which  had  been  the  pride  and  the  splendor  of  his 
name.  But  the  grand-nephew  of  Urban  VII,  seated 
between  sublime  Fanny  Hafner,  in  pale  blue,  and 
pretty  Alba  Steno,  in  bright  red,  opposite  Madame 
Maitland,  so  graceful  in  her  mauve  toilette,  had  in  no 
manner  the  air  of  a  man  crushed  by  adversity. 

The  subdued  light  revealed  his  proud  manly  face, 
which  had  lost  none  of  its  gay  hauteur.  His  eyes,  very 
black,  very  brilliant,  and  very  unsteady,  seemed  almost 
in  the  same  glance  to  scorn  and  to  smile,  while  his 
mouth,  beneath  its  brown  moustache,  wore  an  expres- 
sion of  disdain,  disgust,  and  sensuality.  The  shaven 
chin  displayed  a  bluish  shade,  which  gave  to  the  whole 
face  a  look  of  strength,  belied  by  the  slender  and  ner- 
vous form.  The  heir  of  the  Castagnas  was  dressed 
with  an  affectation  of  the  English  style,  peculiar  to 
certain  Italians.  He  wore  too  many  rings  on  his  fin- 
gers, too  large  a  bouquet  in  his  buttonhole,  and  above 
all  he  made  too  many  gestures  to  allow  for  a  moment, 
with  his  dark  complexion,  of  any  doubt  as  to  his 
nationality.  It  was  he  who,  of  all  the  group,  first 
perceived  Julien,  and  he  said  to  him,  or  rather  called 
out  familiarly: 

"Ah,   Dorsenne!    I  thought  you   had  gone  away. 
We  have  not  seen  you  at  the  club  for  fifteen  days." 

"He  has  been  working,"  replied  Hafner,  "at  some 
[109] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

new  masterpiece,  at  a  romance  which  is  laid  in  Roman 
society,  I  am  sure.  Mistrust  him,  Prince,  and  you, 
ladies,  disarm  the  portrayer. " 

"I,"  resumed  Ardea,  laughing  pleasantly,  "will  give 
him  notes  upon  myself,  if  he  wants  them,  as  long  as 
this,  and  I  will  illustrate  his  romance  into  the  bargain 
with  photographs  which  I  once  had  a  rage  for  taking. 
.  .  See,  Mademoiselle,"  he  added,  turning  to  Fanny, 
"that  is  how  one  ruins  one's  self.  I  had  a  mania  for 
the  instantaneous  ones.  It  was  very  innocent,  was  it 
not?  It  cost  me  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year,  for 
four  years." 

Dorsenne  had  heard  that  it  was  a  watchword  be- 
tween Peppino  Ardea  and  his  friends  to  take  lightly 
the  disaster  which  came  upon  the  Castagna  family  in 
its  last  and  only  scion.  He  was  not  expecting  such  a 
greeting.  He  was  so  disconcerted  by  it  that  he  neg- 
lected to  reply  to  the  Baron's  remark,  as  he  would 
have  done  at  any  other  time.  Never  did  the  founder 
of  the  Credit  Austro-Dalmate  fail  to  manifest  in  some 
such  way  his  profound  aversion  for  the  novelist.  Men 
of  his  species,  profoundly  cynical  and  calculating,  fear 
and  scorn  at  the  same  time  a  certain  literature.  More- 
over, he  had  too  much  tact  not  to  be  aware  of  the  in- 
stinctive repulsion  with  which  he  inspired  Julien.  But 
to  liafncr,  all  social  strength  was  tariffed,  and  literary 
success  as  much  as  any  other.  As  he  was  afraid,  as 
on  the  .staircase  of  the  Palais  Castagna,  that  he  had 
gone  too  far,  he  added,  laying  his  hand  with  its  long, 
supple  fingers  familiarly  upon  the  author's  shoulder: 

"This  is  what  I  admire  in  him:   It  is  that  he  allows 

[.lOj 


COSMOPOLIS 

profane  persons,  such  as  we  are,  to  plague  him,  with- 
out ever  growing  angry.  He  is  the  only  celebrated 
author  who  is  so  simple.  .  .  But  he  is  better  than  an 
author;   he  is  a  veritable  man-of-the-world. " 

"Is  not  the  Countess  here?"  asked  Dorsenne,  ad- 
dressing Alba  Steno,  and  without  replying  any  more 
to  the  action,  so  involuntarily  insulting,  of  the  Baron 
than  he  had  to  his  sly  malice  or  to  the  Prince's 
facetious  offer.  Madame  Steno's  absence  had  again 
inspired  him  with  an  apprehension  which  the  young 
girl  dissipated  by  replying: 

"My  mother  is  on  the  terrace.  .  .  We  were  afraid 
it  was  too  cool  for  Fanny."  .  .  It  was  a  very  simple 
phrase,  which  the  Contessina  uttered  very  simply,  as 
she  fanned  herself  with  a  large  fan  of  white  feathers. 
Each  wave  of  it  stirred  the  meshes  of  her  fair  hair, 
which  she  wore  curled  upon  her  rather  high  forehead. 
Julien  understood  her  too  well  not  to  perceive  that 
her  voice,  her  gestures,  her  eyes,  her  entire  being, 
betrayed  a  nervousness  at  that  moment  almost  upon 
the  verge  of  sadness. 

Was  she  still  reserved  from  the  day  before,  or  was 
she  a  prey  to  one  of  those  inexplicable  transactions, 
which  had  led  Dorsenne  in  his  meditations  of  the 
night  to  such  strange  suspicions?  Those  suspicions 
returned  to  him  with  the  feeling  that,  of  all  the  persons 
present.  Alba  was  the  only  one  who  seemed  to  be 
aware  of  the  drama  which  undoubtedly  was  brewing. 
He  resolved  to  seek  once  more  for  the  solution  of  the 
hving  enigma  which  that  singular  girl  was.  How  lovely 
she  appeared  to  him  that  evening  with  those  two  ex- 

[III] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

pressions  which  gave  her  an  almost  tragical  look! 
The  corners  of  her  mouth  drooped  somewhat;  her 
upper  lip,  almost  too  short,  disclosed  her  teeth,  and 
in  the  lower  part  of  her  pale  face  was  a  bitterness  so 
prematurely  sad!  Why?  It  was  not  the  time  to  ask 
the  question.  First  of  all,  it  was  necessary  for  the 
young  man  to  go  in  search  of  Madame  Steno  on  the 
terrace,  which  terminated  in  a  paradise  of  Italian  vo- 
luptuousness, the  salon  furnished  in  imitation  of  Paris. 
Shrubs  blossomed  in  large  terra-cotta  vases.  Statuettes 
were  to  be  seen  on  the  balustrade,  and,  beyond,  the  pines 
of  the  Villa  Bonaparte  outlined  their  black  umbrellas 
against  a  sky  of  blue  velvet,  strewn  with  large  stars. 
A  vague  aroma  of  acacias,  from  a  garden  near  by, 
floated  in  the  air,  which  was  light,  caressing,  and  warm. 
The  soft  atmosphere  sufficed  to  convict  of  falsehood 
the  Contessina,  who  had  evidently  wished  to  justify 
the  tete-a-tete  of  her  mother  and  of  Maitland.  The 
two  lovers  were  indeed  together  in  the  perfume,  the 
mystery  and  the  solitude  of  the  obscure  and  quiet 
terrace. 

It  took  Dorscnne,  who  came  from  the  l^right  glare 
of  the  salon,  a  moment  to  distinguish  in  the  darkness 
the  features  of  the  Countess  who,  dressed  all  in  white, 
was  lying  upon  a  willow  coucli  with  soft  cushions  of 
silk.  She  was  smoking  a  cigarette,  the  lighted  end  of 
which,  at  each  breath  she  drew,  gave  sufficient  light  to 
.show  that,  nolwilhslancHng  the  coolness  of  the  night, 
her  lovely  neck,  .so  long  and  flexi1)le,  about  which  was 
clasped  a  collar  of  pearls,  was  bare,  as  well  as  her  fair 
shoulders  and  her  perfect  arms,  laden  with  bracelets, 

[112] 


COSMOPOLIS 

which  were  visible  through  her  wide,  flowing  sleeves. 
On  advancing,  Julien  recognized,  through  the  vegetable 
odors  of  that  spring  night,  the  strong  scent  of  the 
Virginian  tobacco  which  Madame  Steno  had  used  since 
she  had  fallen  in  love  with  Maitland,  instead  of  the 
Russian  "papyrus"  to  which  Gorka  had  accustomed 
her.  It  is  by  such  insignificant  traits  that  amorous 
women  recognize  a  love  profoundly,  insatiably  sensual, 
the  only  one  of  which  the  Venetian  was  capable.  Their 
passionate  desire  to  give  themselves  up  still  more  leads 
them  to  espouse,  so  to  speak,  the  slightest  habits  of 
the  men  whom  they  love  in  that  way.  Thus  arc  ex- 
plained those  metamorphoses  of  tastes,  of  thoughts, 
even  of  appearance,  so  complete,  that  in  six  months, 
in  three  months  of  separation  they  become  like  dif- 
ferent people.  By  the  side  of  that  graceful  and  supple 
vision,  Lincoln  Maitland  was  seated  on  a  low  chair. 
But  his  broad  shoulders,  which  his  evening  coat  set 
ofT  in  their  amplitude,  attested  that  before  having 
studied  "Art" — and  even  while  studying  it — he  had 
not  ceased  to  practise  the  athletic  sports  of  his  English 
education.  As  soon  as  he  was  mentioned,  the  term 
"large"  was  evoked.  Indeed,  above  the  large  frame 
was  a  large  face,  somewhat  red,  with  a  large,  red 
moustache,  which  disclosed,  in  broad  smiles,  his  large, 
strong  teeth. 

Large  rings  glistened  on  his  large  fingers.  He  pre- 
sented a  type  exactly  opposite  to  that  of  Boleslas  Gorka. 
If  the  grandson  of  the  Polish  Castellan  recalled  the 
dangerous  finesse  of  a  feline,  of  a  slender  and  beautiful 
panther,  Maitland  could  be  compared  to  one  of  those 
8  [113] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

mastiffs  in  the  legends,  with  a  jaw  and  muscles  strong 
enough  to  strangle  lions.  The  painter  in  him  was  only 
in  the  eye  and  in  the  hand,  in  consequence  of  a  gift 
as  physical  as  the  voice  to  a  tenor.  But  that  instinct, 
almost  abnormal,  had  been  developed,  cultivated  to 
excess,  by  the  energy  of  will  in  refinement,  a  trait  so 
marked  in  the  Anglo-Saxons  of  the  New  World  when 
they  hke  Europe,  instead  of  detesting  it.  For  the  time 
being,  the  longing  for  refinement  seemed  reduced  to 
the  passionate  inhalations  of  that  divine,  fair  rose  of 
love  which  was  Madame  Steno,  a  rose  almost  too  full- 
blown, and  which  the  autumn  of  forty  years  had  begun 
to  fade.  But  she  was  still  charming.  And  how  Httle 
Maitland  heeded  the  fact  that  his  wife  was  in  the  room 
near  by,  the  windows  of  which  cast  forth  a  light  which 
caused  to  stand  out  more  prominently  the  shadow  of 
the  voluptuous  terrace!  He  held  his  mistress's  hand 
within  his  own,  but  abandoned  it  when  he  perceived 
Dorsenne,  who  took  particular  pains  to  move  a  chair 
noisily  on  approaching  the  couple,  and  to  say,  in  a 
loud  voice,  with  a  merry  laugh: 

"I  should  have  made  a  poor  gallant  abbe  of  the 
last  century,  for  at  night  I  can  really  see  nothing.  If 
your  cigarette  liad  not  served  me  as  a  beacon-light  I 
should  have  run  against  the  balustrade." 

"Ah,  it  is  you,  Dorsenne,"  rei)]ic(l  Madame  Steno, 
with  a  sharpness  contrary  to  her  hal)itual  amiability, 
which  |)r()V('(l  to  the  novelist  tliat  first  of  all  he  was  the 
"inconvenient  third"  of  the  classical  comedies,  then 
that  Ilafner  harl  rcfxirtcd  his  imj)rudcnt  remarks  of  the 
day  before. 

L"4j 


COSMOPOLIS 

''So  much  the  better,"  thought  he,  "I  shall  have 
forewarned  her.  On  reflection  she  will  be  pleased.  It 
is  true  that  at  this  moment  there  is  no  question  of 
reflection."  As  he  said  those  words  to  himself,  he 
talked  aloud  of  the  temperature  of  the  day,  of  the 
probabilities  of  the  weather  for  the  morrow,  of  Ardea's 
good-humor.  lie  made,  indeed,  twenty  trifling  re- 
marks, in  order  to  manage  to  leave  the  terrace  and  to 
leave  the  lovers  to  their  tete-a-tete,  without  causing  his 
withdrawal  to  become  noticeable  by  indiscreet  haste, 
as  disagreeable  as  suggestive. 

"  When  may  we  come  to  your  atelier  to  see  the  por- 
trait finished,  Maitland?"  he  asked,  still  standing,  in 
order  the  better  to  manage  his  retreat. 

''Finished?"  exclaimed  the  Countess,  who  added, 
employing  a  diminutive  which  she  had  used  for  several 
weeks:  "Do  you  then  not  know  that  Linco  has  again 
effaced  the  head?"  "Not  the  entire  head,"  said  the 
painter,  "but  the  face  is  to  be  done  over.  You  re- 
member, Dorsenne,  those  two  canvases  by  Pier  della 
Francesca,  which  are  at  Florence,  Due  Federigo  d'Ur- 
bino  and  his  wife  Battista  Sforza.  Did  you  not  see 
them  in  the  same  room  with  La  Calomnie  by  Botticelli, 
with  a  landscape  in  the  background?  It  is  drawn 
like  this,"  and  he  made  a  gesture  with  his  thumb, 
"and  that  is  what  I  am  trying  to  obtain,  the  necessary 
curve  on  which  all  faces  depend.  There  is  no  better 
painter  in  Italy." 

"And  Titian  and  Raphael?"  interrupted  Madame 
Steno. 

"And  the  Sienese  and  the  Lorenzetti,  of  whom 
[115] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

you  once  raved  ?  You  wrote  to  me  of  them,  with  re- 
gard to  my  article  on  your  exposition  of  'eighty-six; 
do  you  remember?"  inquired  the  writer. 

"Raphael?"  repHed  Maitland.  .  .  "Do  you  wish 
me  to  tell  you  what  Raphael  really  was?  A  sublime 
builder.  And  Titian?  A  sublime  upholsterer.  It  is 
true,  I  admired  the  Sienese  very  much,"  he  added, 
turning  toward  Dorsenne.  "I  spent  three  months  in 
copying  the  Simone  Martini  of  the  municipality,  the 
Guido  Riccio,  who  rides  between  two  strongholds  on 
a  gray  heath,  where  there  is  not  a  sign  of  a  tree  or  a 
house,  but  only  lances  and  towers.  Do  I  remember 
Lorenzetti?  Above  all,  the  fresco  at  San  Francesco, 
in  which  Saint  Francois  presents  his  order  to  the  Pope, 
that  was  his  best  work.  .  .  Then,  there  is  a  cardinal, 
with  his  fingers  on  his  lips,  thus!" — another  gesture. 
"Well,  I  remember  it,  you  see,  because  there  is  an 
anecdote.  It  is  portrayed  on  a  wall — oh,  a  grand 
portrayal,  but  without  the  subject,  flutt!"  .  .  and  he 
made  a  hissing  sound  with  his  lips,  "while  Pier  della 
Francesca,  Carnevale,  Melozzo,"  .  .  he  paused  to  find 
a  word  which  would  express  the  very  complicated 
thought  in  his  head,  and  he  concluded:  "That  is 
painting!" 

"Jiut  the  Assumption  by  Titian,  and  the  Trans/ig- 
iiralion  by  Raphael,"  resumed  the  Countess,  who  add 
ed  in  Italian,  with  an  accent  of  enthusiasm:  ^^ Ah,  chc 
bcllczza!'' 

"Do  not  worry.  Countess,"  said  Dorsenne,  lauglu'ng 
heartily,  "those  are  an  artist's  opinions.  Ten  years 
ago,  I  said  that  Victor  Hugo  was  an  amateur  and 

[no*  J 


COSMOPOLIS 

Alfred  de  Musset  a  bourgeois.  But,"  he  added,  "as 
I  am  not  descended  from  the  Doges  nor  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers,  I,  a  poor,  degenerate  Gallo-Roman,  fear  the 
dampness  on  account  of  my  rheumatism,  and  ask 
your  permission  to  reenter  the  house."  Then,  as  he 
passed  through  the  door  of  the  salon:  "Raphael,  a 
builder!  Titian,  an  upholsterer!  Lorenzetti,  a  re- 
producer ! "  he  repeated  to  himself.  ' '  And  the  descend- 
ant of  the  Doges,  who  listened  seriously  to  those 
speeches,  her  ideal  should  be  a  madonna  en  chromo ! 
Of  the  first  order!  As  for  Gorka,  if  he  had  not  made 
me  lose  my  entire  day  yesterday,  I  should  think  I  had 
been  dreaming,  so  little  is  there  any  question  of  him. 
.  .  .  And  Ardea,  who  continues  to  laugh  at  his  ruin. 
He  is  not  bad  for  an  Italian.  But  he  talks  too  much 
about  his  affairs,  and  it  is  in  bad  taste!"  .  .  .  Indeed, 
as  he  turned  toward  the  group  assembled  in  a  corner  of 
the  salon,  he  heard  the  Prince  relating  a  story  about 
Cavalier  Fossati,  to  whom  was  entrusted  the  charge 
of  the  sale: 

"How  much  do  you  think  will  be  realized  on  all?" 
I  asked  him,  finally.  "Oh,"  he  repHed,  "very  little.  .  . 
But  a  little  and  a  little  more  end  by  making  a  great 
deal.  With  what  an  air  he  added:  '£  gia  il  moschino 
e  conte  —  Already  the  gnat  is  a  count. '  The  gnat 
was  himself.  'A  few  more  sales  like  yours,  my  Prince, 
and  my  son,  the  Count  of  Fossati,  will  have  half  a 
million.  He  will  enter  the  club  and  address  you  with  the 
familiar  'thou'  when  playing  gofjo  against  you.  That  is 
what  there  is  in  this  gia  (already).  .  .  On  my  honor,  T 
have  not  been  happier  than  since  I  have  not  a  sou." 

[117] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"You  are  an  optimist,  Prince,"  said  Hafner,  "and 
whatsoever  our  friend  Dorsenne  here  present  may 
claim,  it  is  necessary  to  be  optimistic." 

"You  are  attacking  him  again,  father,"  interrupted 
Fanny,  in  a  tone  of  respectful  reproach. 

"Not  the  man,"  returned  the  Baron,  "but  his  ideas 
— yes,  and  above  all  those  of  his  school.  .  .  .  Yes, 
yes,"  he  continued,  either  wishing  to  change  the  con- 
versation, which  Ardea  persisted  in  turning  upon  his 
ruin,  or  finding  very  well  organized  a  world  in  which 
strokes  like  that  of  the  Credit  Austro-Dalmate  are  pos- 
sible, he  really  felt  a  deep  aversion  to  the  melancholy 
and  pessimism  with  which  Julien's  works  were  tinged. 
And  he  continued:  "On  listening  to  you,  Ardea,  just 
now,  and  on  seeing  this  great  writer  enter,  I  am  re- 
minded by  contrast  of  the  fashion  now  in  vogue  of 
seeing  life  in  a  gloomy  light." 

"Do  you  find  it  very  gay?"  asked  Alba,  brusquely. 

"Good,"  said  Hafner;  "I  was  sure  that,  in  talking 
against  pessimism,  I  should  make  the  Contessina  talk. 
.  .  .  Very  gay?"  he  continued.  "No.  But  when  I 
think  of  the  misfortunes  which  might  have  come  to  all 
of  us  here,  for  instance,  I  find  it  very  tolerable.  Bet- 
ter than  living  in  another  epoch,  for  example.  One 
hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  Contessina,  in  Venice, 
you  would  have  been  liable  to  arrest  any  day  under  a 
warrant  of  the  Council  of  Ten.  .  ,  .  And  you,  Dor- 
senne, would  have  been  exposed  to  the  cudgel  like 
Monsieur  de  Voltaire,  Ijy  some  jealous  lord.  .  .  And 
Prince  dArdea  would  have  run  the  risk  of  being  as- 
sassinated or  beheaded  at  each  change  of  Pope.     And 

[ii8] 


COSMOPOLIS 

I,  in  my  quality  of  Protestant,  should  have  been  driven 
from  France,  persecuted  in  Austria,  molested  in  Italy, 
burned  in  Spain." 

As  can  be  seen,  he  took  care  to  choose  between  his 
two  inheritances.  He  had  done  so  with  an  enigmatical 
good-nature  which  was  almost  ironical.  He  paused, 
in  order  not  to  mention  what  might  have  come  to 
Madame  Maitland  before  the  suppression  of  slavery. 
He  knew  that  the  very  pretty  and  elegant  young  lady 
shared  the  prejudices  of  her  American  compatriots 
against  negro  blood,  and  that  she  made  every  effort 
to  hide  the  blemish  upon  her  birth  to  the  point  of 
never  removing  her  gloves.  It  may,  however,  in  jus- 
tice be  added,  that  the  slightly  olive  tinge  in  her  com- 
plexion, her  wavy  hair,  and  a  vague  bluish  reflection 
in  the  whites  of  her  eyes  would  scarcely  have  betrayed 
the  mixture  of  race.  She  did  not  seem  to  have  heeded 
the  Baron's  pause,  but  she  arranged,  with  an  absent 
air,  the  folds  of  her  mauve  gown,  while  Dorsenne 
rephed:  "  It  is  a  fine  and  specious  argument.  ...  Its 
only  fault  is  that  it  has  no  foundation.  For  I  defy 
you  to  imagine  yourself  what  you  would  have  been  in 
the  epoch  of  which  you  speak.  We  say  frequently, 
'If  I  had  lived  a  hundred  years  ago.'  We  forget  that 
a  hundred  years  ago  we  should  not  have  been  the 
same;  that  we  should  not  have  had  the  same  ideas, 
the  same  tastes,  nor  the  same  requirements.  It  is 
almost  the  same  as  imagining  that  you  could  think 
like  a  bird  or  a  serpent." 

"One  could  very  well  imagine  what  it  would  be 
never  to  have  been   born,"  interrupted   Alba   Steno. 

[119] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

She  uttered  the  sentence  in  so  pecuhar  a  manmer  that 
the  discussion  begun  by  Hafner  was  nipped  in  the 
bud. 

The  words  produced  their  effect  upon  the  chatter 
of  the  idlers  who  only  partly  beheved  in  the  ideas  they 
put  forth.  Although  there  is  always  a  paradox  in 
condemning  life  amid  a  scene  of  luxury  when  one  is 
not  more  than  twenty,  the  Contessina  was  evidently 
sincere.  Whence  came  that  sincerity?  From  what 
corner  of  her  youthful  heart,  wounded  almost  to  death  ? 
Dorsenne  was  the  only  person  who  asked  himself 
the  question,  for  the  conversation  turned  at  once,  Ly- 
dia  Maitland  having  touched  with  her  fan  the  sleeve 
of  Alba,  who  was  two  seats  from  her,  to  ask  her  this 
question  with  an  irony  as  charming,  after  the  young 
girl's  words,  as  it  was  involuntary: 

''It  is  silk  muslin,  is  it  not?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Contessina,  who  rose  and  leaned 
over,  to  offer  to  the  clirious  gaze  of  her  pretty  neigh- 
bor hcT  arm,  which  gleamed  frail,  nervous,  and  softly 
fair  through  the  transparent  red  material,  with  a  bow 
of  ribbon  of  the  same  color  tied  at  her  slender  shoulder 
and  her  graceful  wrist,  while  Ardea,  by  the  side  of 
Fanny,  could  be  heard  saying  to  the  daughter  of  Baron 
Justus,  more  beautiful  than  vvcv  that  evening,  in  her 
[)allor  slightly  tinged  with  |)ink  1)y  some  secret  agita- 
tion : 

"You  visited  my  palace  yesterday,  Mademoiselle?" 

"No,"  she  ivplicd. 

"Ask  luT  vviiy  not,  Prince,"  said  Ilafner. 

"Father!"   cried    F;inny,  with  a  siipj)licati<)n  in  her 


COSMOPOLIS 

black  eyes  which  Ardea  had  the  dehcacy  to  obey,  as 
he  resumed: 

'*It  is  a  pity.  Everything  there  is  very  ordinary. 
But  you  would  have  been  interested  in  the  chapel. 
Indeed,  I  regret  that  the  most,  those  objects  before 
which  my  ancestors  have  prayed  so  long  and  which 
end  by  being  listed  in  a  catalogue.  .  .  .  They  even 
took  the  reliquary  from  me,  because  it  was  by  Ugolina 
da  Siena.  I  will  buy  it  back  as  soon  as  I  can.  Your 
father  applauds  my  courage.  I  could  not  part  from 
those  objects  without  real  sorrow." 

"But  it  is  the  feeling  she  has  for  the  entire  palace," 
said  the  Baron. 

"Father!"  again  implored  Fanny. 

"Come,  compose  yourself,  I  will  not  betray  you," 
said  Hafner,  while  Alba,  taking  advantage  of  having 
risen,  left  the  group.  She  walked  toward  a  table  at 
the  other  extremity  of  the  room,  set  in  the  style  of  an 
English  table,  with  tea  and  iced  drinks,  saying  to 
Julien,  who  followed  her: 

"Shall  I  prepare  your  brandy  and  soda,  Dorsenne?" 

"What  ails  you,  Contessina?"  asked  the  young  man, 
in  a  whisper,  when  they  were  alone  near  the  plateau 
of  crystal  and  the  collection  of  silver,  which  gleamed 
so  brightly  in  the  dimly  lighted  part  of  the  room. 

"Yes,"  he  persisted,  "what  ails  you?  Are  you  still 
vexed  with  me?" 

"With  you?"  said  she.  "I  have  never  been.  Why 
should  I  be?"  she  repeated.  "You  have  done  nothing 
to  me." 

"Some  one  has  wounded  you?"  asked  Julien. 

[121] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

He  saw  that  she  was  sincere,  and  that  she  scarcely 
remembered  the  ill-humor  of  the  preceding  day.  "You 
can  not  deceive  a  friend  such  as  I  am,"  he  continued. 
"On  seeing  you  fan  yourself,  I  knew  that  you  had 
some  annoyance.     I  know  you  so  well." 

"I  have  no  annoyance,"  she  replied,  with  an  im- 
patient frown.  "I  can  not  bear  to  hear  lies  of  a  cer- 
tain kind.     That  is  all  !" 

"And  who  has  lied?"  resumed  Dorsenne. 

"Did  you  not  hear  Ardea  speak  of  his  chapel  just 
now,  he  who  believes  in  God  as  little  as  Hafner,  of 
whom  no  one  knows  whether  he  is  a  Jew  or  a  Gentile ! 
.  .  .  Did  you  not  see  poor  Fanny  look  at  him  the 
while?  And  did  you  not  remark  with  what  tact  the 
Baron  made  the  allusion  to  the  dehcacy  which  had  pre- 
vented his  daughter  from  visiting  the  Palais  Castagna 
with  us?  And  did  that  comedy  enacted  between  the 
two  men  give  you  no  food  for  thought?" 

"Is  that  why  Peppino  is  here?"  asked  Julien.  "Is 
there  a  plan  on  foot  for  the  marriage  of  the  heiress  of 
Papa  Hafner's  millions  and  the  grand-nephew  of  Pope 
Urban  VII  ?  That  will  furnish  me  with  a  fine  subject 
of  conversation  with  some  one  of  my  acquaintance!" 
.  .  .  And  the  mere  thought  of  Montfanon  learning  such 
news  caused  him  to  laugh  heartily,  while  he  continued : 
"Do  not  look  at  me  so  indignantly,  dear  Contessina. 
.  .  .  But  I  see  nothing  so  sad  in  the  .story.  Fanny 
to  marry  Pep])in{)?  Why  not?  You  yourself  have 
told  me  that  she  is  partly  Catholic,  and  that  her  father 
is  only  awaiting  her  marriage  to  have  her  baptized. 
She  will  be  happy  then.     Ardea  will  keep  the   mag- 

[  122] 


COSMOPOLIS 

nificent  palace  we  saw  yesterday,  and  the  Baron  will 
crown  his  career  in  giving  to  a  man  ruined  on  the 
Bourse,  in  the  form  of  a  dowry,  that  which  he  has 
taken  from  others." 

"Be  silent,"  said  the  young  girl,  in  a  very  grave 
voice,  ''you  inspire  me  with  horror.  That  Ardea 
should  have  lost  all  scruples,  and  that  he  should  wish 
to  sell  his  title  of  a  Roman  prince  at  as  high  a  price  as 
possible,  to  no  matter  what  bidder,  is  so  much  the 
more  a  matter  of  indifference,  for  we  Venetians  do  not 
allow  ourselves  to  be  imposed  upon  by  the  Roman 
nobility.  We  all  had  Doges  in  our  famxilies  when  the 
fathers  of  these  people  were  bandits  in  the  country, 
waiting  for  some  poor  monk  of  their  name  to  become 
Pope.  That  Baron  Hafner  sells  his  daughter  as  he 
once  sold  her  jewels  is  also  a  matter  of  indifference 
to  me.  But  you  do  not  know  her.  You  do  not 
know  what  a  creature,  charming  and  enthusiastic, 
simple  and  sincere,  she  is,  and  who  will  never,  never 
mistrust  that,  first  of  all,  her  father  is  a  thief,  and, 
then,  that  he  is  selHng  her  like  a  trinket  in  order  to 
have  grand -children  who  shall  be  at  the  same  time 
grand-nephews  of  the  Pope,  and,  finally,  that  Peppino 
does  not  love  her,  that  he  wants  her  dowry,  and  that 
he  will  have  for  her  as  little  feeling  as  they  have  for 
her."  She  glanced  at  Madame  Maitland.  "It  is 
worse  than  I  can  tell  you,"  she  said,  enigmatically,  as 
if  vexed  by  her  own  words,  and  almost  frightened  by 
them. 

"Yes,"  said  JuHen,  "it  would  be  very  sad;  but  are 
you  sure  that  you  do  not  exaggerate  the  situation? 

[123] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

There  is  not  so  much  calculation  in  life.  It  is  more 
mediocre  and  more  facile.  Perhaps  the  Prince  and 
the  Baron  have  a  vague  project." 

"A  vague  project?"  interrupted  Alba,  shrugging  her 
shoulders.  "There  is  never  anything  vague  with  a 
Hafner,  you  may  depend.  What  if  I  were  to  tell 
you  that  I  am  positive — do  you  hear — positive  that  it 
is  he  who  holds  between  his  fingers  the  largest  part 
of  the  Prince's  debts,  and  that  he  caused  the  sale  by 
Ancona  to  obtain  the  bargain?" 

"It  is  impossible!"  exclaimed  Dorsenne.  "You 
saw  him  yourself  yesterday  thinking  of  buying  this 
and  that  object." 

"Do  not  make  me  say  any  more,"  said  Alba,  pass- 
ing over  her  brow  and  her  eyes  two  or  three  times  her 
hand,  upon  which  no  ring  sparkled — that  hand,  very 
supple  and  white,  whose  movements  betrayed  extreme 
nervousness.  "I  have  already  said  too  much.  It  is 
not  my  business,  and  poor  Fanny  is  only  to  me  a 
recent  friend,  although  I  think  her  very  attractive  and 
affectionate.  .  .  When  I  think  that  she  is  on  the 
point  of  pledging  herself  for  life,  and  that  there  is  no 
one,  that  there  can  be  no  one,  to  cry:  They  He  to 
you!  I  am  filled  with  compassion.  That  is  all.  It 
is  childish!" 

It  is  always  painful  to  observe  in  a  young  person  the 
exact  perception  of  the  sinister  dealings  of  life,  which, 
once  entered  into  the  mind,  never  allows  of  the  care- 
lessness so  natural  at  the  age  of  twenty. 

The  impression  of  premature  disenchantment  Alba 
Steno  had  many  times  given  to  Dorsenne,  and  it  had 

[124] 


COSMOPOLIS 

indeed  been  the  principal  attraction  to  the  curious 
observer  of  the  feminine  character,  who  still  was  struck 
by  the  terrible  absence  of  illusion  which  such  a  view 
of  the  projects  of  Fanny's  father  revealed.  Whence 
did  she  know  them?  Evidently  from  Madame  Steno 
herself.  Either  the  Baron  and  the  Countess  had  talked 
of  them  before  the  young  girl  too  openly  to  leave  her 
in  any  doubt,  or  she  had  divined  what  they  did  not 
tell  her,  through  their  conversation.  On  seeing  her 
thus,  with  her  bitter  mouth,  her  bright  eyes,  so  visibly 
a  prey  to  the  fever  of  suppressed  loathing,  Dorsenne 
again  was  impressed  by  the  thought  of  her  perfect 
perspicacity.  It  was  probable  that  she  had  applied 
the  same  force  of  thought  to  her  mother's  conduct. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  on  raising,  as  she  was  doing, 
the  wick  of  the  silver  lamp  beneath  the  large  tea- 
kettle, that  she  was  glancing  sidewise  at  the  terrace, 
where  the  end  of  the  Countess's  white  robe  could  be 
seen  through  the  shadow.  Suddenly  the  mad  thoughts 
which  had  so  greatly  agitated  him  on  the  previous  day 
possessed  him  again,  and  the  plan  he  had  formed  of 
imitating  his  model,  Hamlet,  in  playing  in  Madame 
Steno's  salon  the  role  of  the  Danish  prince  before  his 
uncle  occurred  to  him.  Absently,  with  his  customary 
air  of  indifference,  he  continued : 

"Rest  assured,  Ardea  does  not  lack  enemies.  Ilaf- 
ner,  too,  has  plenty  of  them.  Some  one  will  be  found 
to  denounce  their  plot,  if  there  is  a  plot,  to  lovely 
Fanny.     An  anonymous  letter  is  so  quickly  written." 

He  had  no  sooner  uttered  those  words  than  he  inter- 
rupted himself  with  the  start  of  a  man  who  handles  a 

[125] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

weapon  which  he  thinks  unloaded  and  which  suddenly 
discharges. 

It  was,  really,  to  discharge  a  duty  in  the  face  of  his 
own  scepticism  that  he  had  spoken  thus,  and  he  did 
not  expect  to  see  another  shade  of  sadness  flit  across 
Alba's  mobile  and  proud  face. 

There  was  in  the  corners  of  her  mouth  more  disgust, 
her  eyes  expressed  more  scorn,  while  her  hands,  busy 
preparing  the  tea,  trembled  as  she  said,  with  an  accent 
so  agitated  that  her  friend  regretted  his  cruel  plan: 

"Ah!  Do  not  speak  of  it!  It  would  be  still  worse 
than  her  present  ignorance.  At  least,  now  she  knows 
nothing,  and  if  some  miserable  person  were  to  do  as 
you  say  she  would  know  in  part  without  being  sure. 
.  .  .  How  could  you  smile  at  such  a  supposition  ?  .  .  . 
No!  Poor,  gentle  Fanny!  I  hope  she  will  receive  no 
anonymous  letters.  They  are  so  cowardly  and  make 
so  much  trouble!" 

"I  ask  your  pardon  if  I  have  wounded  you,"  replied 
Dorscnne.  He  had  touched,  he  felt  it,  a  tender  spot 
in  that  heart,  and  perceived  with  grief  that  not  only 
had  Alba  Stcno  not  written  the  anonymous  letters 
addressed  to  Gorka,  but  that,  on  the  contrary,  she 
had  received  some  herself.  From  whom  ?  Who  was  the 
mysterious  denunciator  who  had  warned  in  that  abom- 
inable manner  the  daughter  of  Madame  Steno  after 
the  l()\er?  Julicn  shuddered  as  he  continued:  "If  I 
smiled,  it  was  because  I  believe  Mademoiselle  Hafncr, 
in  case  the  misfortune  should  come  to  her,  sensible 
enough  lo  treat  such  advice  as  it  merits.  An  anony- 
mous letter  does  not  deserve  to  be  read.     Any  one 

[126] 


COSMOPOLIS 

infamous  enough  to  make  use  of  weapons  of  that  sort 
docs  not  deserve  that  one  should  do  him  the  honor 
even  to  glance  at  what  he  has  written." 

"Is  it  not  so?"  said  the  girl.  There  was  in  her 
eyes,  the  pupils  of  which  suddenly  dilated,  a  gleam  of 
genuine  gratitude  which  convinced  her  companion 
that  he  had  seen  correctly.  He  had  uttered  just  the 
words  of  which  she  had  need.  In  the  face  of  that 
proof,  he  was  suddenly  overwhelmed  by  an  access  of 
shame  and  of  pity — of  shame,  because  in  his  thoughts 
he  had  insulted  the  unhappy  girl — of  pity,  because  she 
had  to  suffer  a  blow  so  cruel,  if,  indeed,  her  mother 
had  been  exposed  to  her.  It  must  have  been  on  the 
preceding  afternoon  or  that  very  morning  that  she 
had  received  the  horrible  letter,  for,  during  the  visit  to 
the  Palais  Castagna,  she  had  been,  by  turns,  gay  and 
quiet,  but  so  childish,  while  on  that  particular  evening 
it  was  no  longer  the  child  w^ho  suffered,  but  the  woman. 
Dorsenne  resumed : 

"You  see,  we  writers  are  exposed  to  those  abomi- 
nations. A  book  which  succeeds,  a  piece  which  pleases, 
an  article  which  is  extolled,  calls  forth  from  the  en- 
vious unsigned  letters  which  wound  us  or  those  whom 
we  love.  In  such  cases,  I  repeat,  I  burn  them  un- 
read, and  if  ever  in  your  life  such  come  to  you,  listen 
to  me,  little  Countess,  and  follow  the  advice  of  your 
friend,  Dorsenne,  for  he  is  your  friend;  you  know  it, 
do  you  not,  your  true  friend?" 

"Why  should  I  receive  anonymous  letters?"  asked 
the  girl,  quickly.  "I  have  neither  fame,  beauty,  nor 
wealth,  and  am  not  to  be  envied." 

[127] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

As  Dorsenne  looked  at  her,  regretting  that  he  had 
said  so  much,  she  forced  her  sad  Hps  to  smile,  and 
added:  ''If  you  are  really  my  friend,  instead  of  mak- 
ing me  lose  time  by  your  advice,  of  which  I  shall  prob- 
ably never  have  need,  for  I  shall  never  become  a  great 
authoress,  help  me  to  serve  the  tea,  will  you?  It 
should  be  ready."  And  with  her  slender  fingers 
she  raised  the  lid  of  the  kettle,  saying:  "Go  and  ask 
Madame  Maitland  if  she  will  take  some  tea  this  eve- 
nino:,  and  Fannv,  too.  .  .  .  Ardea  takes  whiskey  and 
the  Baron  mineral  water.  .  .  .  You  can  ring  for  his 
glass  of  vichy.  .  .  ■  There.  .  .  .  You  have  delayed  me. 
.  .  .  There  are  more  callers  and  nothing  is  ready. 
.  .  .  Ah,"  she  cried,  "it  is  Maud!" — then,  with  sur- 
prise, "and  her  husband!" 

Indeed,  the  folding  doors  of  the  hall  opened  to 
admit  Maud  Gorka,  a  robust  British  beauty,  radiant 
with  happiness,  attired  in  a  gown  of  black  crepe  de 
Chine  with  orange  ribbons,  which  set  off  to  advantage 
her  fresh  color.  Behind  her  came  Boleslas.  But  he 
was  no  longer  the  traveller  who,  thirty-six  hours  before, 
had  arrived  at  the  Place  de  la  Trinite-des-Monts,  mad 
with  anxiety,  wild  with  jealousy,  soiled  by  the  dust 
of  travel,  his  hair  disordered,  his  hands  and  face  dirty. 
It  was,  though  somewhat  thinner,  the  elegant  Gorka 
whom  Dorsenne  had  known — tall,  slender,  and  per- 
fumed, in  full  dress,  a  bouquet  in  his  buttonhole,  his 
lips  smiling.  To  the  novelist,  knowing  what  he  knew, 
the  smile  and  the  composure  had  something  in  them 
more  terrible  than  the  fren/y  of  the  day  before.  He 
comprehended  it  by  the  manner  in  which  the  Pole  gave 

[128] 


COSMOPOLIS 

him  his  hand.  One  night  and  a  day  of  reflection  had 
undermined  his  work,  and  if  Boleslas  had  enacted  the 
comedy  to  the  point  of  lulHng  his  wife's  suspicions  and 
of  deciding  on  the  visit  of  that  evening,  it  was  because 
he  had  resolved  not  to  consult  any  one  and  to  lead 
his  own  inquiry.  He  was  succeeding  in  the  beginning; 
he  had  certainly  perceived  Madame  Steno's  white 
gown  upon  the  terrace,  while  radiant  Maud  explained 
his  unexpected  return  with  her  usual  ingenuous- 
ness. 

"This  is  what  comes  of  sending  to  a  doting  father 
accounts  of  our  boy's  health.  ...  I  wrote  him  the 
other  day  that  Luc  had  a  little  fever.  He  wrote  to 
ask  about  its  progress.  I  did  not  receive  his  letter. 
He  became  uneasy,  and  here  he  is." 

"I  will  tell  mamma,"  said  Alba,  passing  out  upon 
the  terrace,  but  her  haste  seemed  too  slow  to  Dorsenne. 
He  had  such  a  presentiment  of  danger  that  he  did  not 
think  of  smiling,  as  he  would  have  done  on  any  other 
occasion,  at  the  absolute  success  of  the  deception 
which  he  and  Boleslas  had  planned  on  the  preceding 
day,  and  of  which  the  Count  had  said,  with  a  fatuity 
now  proven:  "Maud  will  be  so  happy  to  see  me  that 
she  will  believe  all." 

It  was  a  scene  both  simple  and  tragical — of  that 
order  in  which  in  society  the  most  horrible  incidents 
occur  without  a  sound,  without  a  gesture,  amid  phrases 
of  conventionality  and  in  a  festal  framework!  Two 
of  the  spectators,  at  least,  besides  Julien,  understood 
its  importance — Ardea  and  Hafner.  For  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other  had  failed  to  notice  the  relations 
9  [129] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

between  Madame  Steno  and  Maitland,  much  less  her 
position  with  regard  to  Gorka.  The  writer,  the  grand 
seigneur,  and  the  business  man  had,  notwithstanding 
the  differences  of  age  and  of  position,  a  large  experience 
of  analogous  circumstances. 

They  knew  of  what  presence  of  mind  a  courageous 
woman  was  capable,  when  surprised,  as  was  the  Ve- 
netian. All  these  have  declared  since  that  they  had 
never  imagined  more  admirable  self-possession,  a  com- 
posure more  superbly  audacious,  than  that  displayed 
by  Madame  Steno,  at  that  decisive  moment.  She 
appeared  on  the  threshold  of  the  French  window,  sur- 
prised and  delighted,  just  in  the  measure  she  con- 
formably should  be.  Her  fair  complexion,  which  the 
slightest  emotion  tinged  with  carmine,  was  bewitch- 
ingly  pink.  Not  a  quiver  of  her  long  lashes  veiled  her 
deep  blue  eyes,  which  gleamed  brightly.  With  her 
smile,  which  exhibited  her  lovely  teeth,  the  color  of  the 
large  pearls  which  were  twined  about  her  neck,  with 
the  emeralds  in  her  fair  hair,  with  her  fine  shoulders 
displayed  by  the  sloy)c  of  her  white  corsage,  with  her 
delicate  waist,  with  the  splendor  of  her  arms  from 
which  she  had  removed  the  gloves  to  yield  them  to  the 
caresses  of  Maillanrl,  and  which  gleamed  with  more 
emeralds,  with  her  carriage  marked  by  a  certain  haugh- 
tiness, she  was  truly  a  woman  of  another  age,  the  sister 
of  those  radiant  princesses  whom  the  painters  of  Venice 
evoke  beneath  the  niarl)le  jjorticoes,  among  apostles 
and  martyrs.  She  advanced  to  Maud  Gorka,  whom 
she  embraced  alTertionately,  then,  pressing  Boleshis's 
hand,  she  said  in  a  voice  so  warm,  in  which  at  times 


COSMOPOLIS 

there  were  deep  tones,  softened  by  the  habitual  use 
of  the  caressing  dialect  of  the  lagoon  : 

"What  a  surprise!  And  you  could  not  come  to 
dine  with  us?  Well,  sit  down,  both  of  you,  and  relate 
to  me  the  Odyssey  of  the  traveller,"  and,  turning 
toward  Maitland,  who  had  followed  her  into  the  salon 
with  the  insolent  composure  of  a  giant  and  of  a  lover : 

"Be  kind,  my  little  Linco,  and  fetch  me  my  fan  and 
my  gloves,  which  I  left  on  the  couch." 

At  that  moment  Dorsenne,  who  had  only  one  fear, 
that  of  meeting  Gorka's  eyes — he  could  not  have  borne 
their  glance— was  again  by  the  side  of  x\lba  Steno. 
The  young  girl's  face,  just  now  so  troubled,  was  ra- 
diant. It  seemed  as  if  a  great  weight  had  been  lifted 
from  the  pretty  Contessina's  mind. 

"Poor  child,"  thought  the  writer,  "she  would  not 
think  her  mother  could  be  so  calm  were  she  guilty. 
The  Countess's  manner  is  the  reply  to  the  anonymous 
letter.  Have  they  written  all  to  her?  My  God  ! 
Who  can  it  be?" 

And  he  fell  into  a  deep  revery,  interrupted  only  by 
the  hum  of  the  conversation,  in  which  he  did  not  par- 
ticipate. It  woukl  have  satisfied  him  had  he  ob- 
served, instead  of  meditated,  that  the  truth  with  re- 
gard to  the  author  of  the  anonymous  letters  might 
have  become  clear  to  him,  as  clear  as  the  courage  of 
Madame  Steno  in  meeting  danger — as  the  blind  con- 
fidence of  Madame  Gorka — as  the  disdainful  imper- 
turbability of  Maitland  before  his  rival  and  the  sup- 
pressed rage  of  that  rival— as  the  finesse  of  Hafner  in 
sustaining  the  general  conversation — as  the  assiduous 

[131] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

attentions  of  Ardea  to  Fanny — as  the  emotion  of  the 
latter — as  clear  as  Alba's  sense  of  relief.  All  those 
faces,  on  Boleslas's  entrance,  had  expressed  different 
feelings.  Only  one  had,  for  several  minutes,  expressed 
the  joy  of  crime  and  the  avidity  of  ultimately  satisfied 
hatred.  But  as  it  was  that  of  little  Madame  Maitland, 
the  silent  creature,  considered  so  constantly  by  him 
as  stupid  and  insignificant,  Dorsenne  had  not  paid 
more  attention  to  it  than  had  the  other  witnesses  the 
surprising  reappearance  of  the  betrayed  lover. 

Every  country  has  a  metaphor  to  express  the  idea 
that  there  is  no  worse  water  than  that  which  is  stag- 
nant. Still  waters  run  deep,  say  the  English,  and  the 
Italians,  Still  waters  ruin  bridges. 

These  adages  would  not  be  accurate  if  one  did  not 
forget  them  in  practise,  and  the  professional  analyst 
of  the  feminine  heart  had  entirely  forgotten  them  on 
that  evening. 


[132] 


CHAPTER  V 

COUNTESS  STENO 

;0  a  woman  less  courageous  than  the 
Countess,  less  capable  of  looking  a 
situation  in  the  face  and  of  advancing 
to  it,  such  an  evening  would  have 
marked  the  prelude  to  one  of  those 
nights  of  insomnia  when  the  mind 
exhausts  in  advance  all  the  agonies 
of  probable  danger.  Countess  Steno 
did  not  know  what  weakness  and  fear  were. 

A  creature  of  energy  and  of  action,  who  felt  herself 
to  be  above  all  danger,  she  attached  no  meaning  to 
the  word  uneasiness.  So  she  slept,  on  the  night  which 
followed  that  soiree,  a  sleep  as  profound,  as  refreshing, 
as  if  Gorka  had  never  returned  with  vengeance  in  his 
heart,  with  threats  in  his  eyes.  Toward  ten  o'clock 
the  following  morning,  she  was  in  the  tiny  salon,  or 
rather,  the  office  adjoining  her  bedroom,  examining 
several  accounts  brought  by  one  of  her  men  of  busi- 
ness. Rising  at  seven  o'clock,  according  to  her  cus- 
tom, she  had  taken  the  cold  bath  in  which,  in  summer 
as  well  as  winter,  she  daily  quickened  her  blood.  She 
had  breakfasted,  a  Vanglaise,  following  the  rule  to 
which  she  claimed  to  owe  the  preservation  of  her  di- 
gestion, upon  eggs,  cold  meat,  and  tea.     She  had  made 

[  T-3Z  ] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

her  complicated  toilette,  had  visited  her  daughter  to 
ascertain  how  she  had  slept,  had  written  five  letters, 
for  her  cosmopolitan  salon  compelled  her  to  carry  on 
an  immense  correspondence,  which  radiated  between 
Cairo  and  New  York,  St.  Petersburg  and  Bombay, 
taking  in  Munich,  London,  and  Madeira,  and  she  was 
as  faithful  in  friendship  as  she  was  inconstant  in  love. 
Her  large  handwriting,  so  elegant  in  its  composition, 
had  covered  pages  and  pages  before  she  said:  "I  have 
a  rendezvous  at  eleven  o'clock  with  Maitland.  Ardea 
will  be  here  at  ten  to  talk  of  his  marriage.  I  have 
accounts  from  Finoli  to  examine.  I  hope  that  Gorka 
will  not  come,  too,  this  morning."  .  .  ,  Persons  in 
whom  the  feeling  of  love  is  very  complete,  but  very 
physical,  are  thus.  They  give  themselves  and  take 
themselves  back  altogether.  The  Countess  experienced 
no  more  pity  than  fear  in  thinking  of  her  betrayed 
lover.  She  had  determined  to  say  to  him,  "I  no 
longer  love  you,"  frankly,  openly,  and  to  offer  him  his 
choice  between  a  final  rupture  or  a  firm  friendship. 
The  only  annoyance  depended  upon  the  word  of 
explanation,  which  she  desired  to  see  postponed  until 
afternoon,  when  she  would  he  free,  an  annoyance 
which,  however,  did  not  prevent  her  from  examining 
with  her  usual  accuracy  the  additions  and  multipli- 
cations of  her  intendant,  who  stood  near  her  with  a 
face  such  as  Bonifagio  gave  to  his  Pharisees.  He 
managed  the  seven  hundred  hectares  of  Piove,  near 
Padua,  Madame  Steno's  favorite  estate.  She  had  in- 
creased the  revenue  from  it  tenfold,  by  the  draining  of 
a  sterile  and  often  malignant  lagoon,  which,  situated 

[134] 


COSMOPOLIS 

a  metre  below  the  water-level,  had  proved  of  surpris- 
ing fertility ;  and  she  calculated  the  probable  operations 
for  weeks  in  advance  with  the  detailed  and  precise 
knowledge  of  rural  cultivation  which  is  the  character- 
istic of  the  Italian  aristocracy  and  the  permanent  cause 
of  its  vitality. 

''Then  you  estimate  the  gain  from  the  silkworms 
at  about  fifty  kilos  of  cocoons  to  an  ounce?" 

"Yes,  Excellency,"  replied  the  intendant. 

"One  hundred  ounces  of  yellow;  one  hundred  times 
fifty  makes  five  thousand,"  resumed  the  Countess. 
"At  four  francs  fifty?" 

"Perhaps  five,  Excellency,"  said  the  intendant. 

"Let  us  say  twenty-two  thousand  five  hundred," 
said  the  Countess,  "  and  as  much  for  the  Japanese.  .  .  . 
That  will  bring  us  in  our  outlay  for  building." 

"Yes,  Excellency.     And  about  the  wine?" 

"I  am  of  the  opinion,  after  what  you  have  told  me 
of  the  vineyard,  that  you  should  sell  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible to  Kauffmann's  agent  all  that  remains  of  the 
last  crop,  but  not  at  less  than  six  francs.  You  know 
it  is  necessary  that  our  casks  be  emptied  and  cleaned 
after  the  month  of  August.  ...  If  we  were  to  fail 
this  time,  for  the  first  year  that  we  manufacture  our 
wine  with  the  new  machine,  it  would  be  too  bad." 

"Yes,  Excellency.     And  the  horses?" 

"I  think  that  is  an  opportunity  we  should  not  let 
escape.  My  advice  is  that  you  take  the  express  to 
Florence  to-day  at  two  o'clock.  You  will  reach  Verona 
to-morrow  morning.  You  will  conclude  the  bargain. 
The  horses  will  be  sent  to  Piove  the  same  evening.  .  . 

[135] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

We  have  finished  just  in  time,"  she  continued,  arrang- 
ing the  intendant's  papers.  She  put  them  herself  in 
their  envelope,  which  she  gave  him.  She  had  an  ex- 
tremely delicate  sense  of  hearing,  and  she  knew  that 
the  door  of  the  antechamber  opened.  It  seemed  that 
the  administrator  took  away  in  his  portfolio  all  the 
preoccupation  of  this  extraordinary  woman.  For,  after 
concluding  that  dry  conversation,  or  rather  that  mon- 
ologue, she  had  her  clearest  and  brightest  smile  with 
which  to  receive  the  new  arrival,  who  was,  fortunately. 
Prince  d'Ardea.     She  said  to  the  servant: 

"I  wish  to  speak  with  the  Prince.  If  any  one  asks 
for  me,  do  not  admit  him  and  do  not  send  any  one 
hither.  Bring  me  the  card."  Then,  turning  tow^ard 
the  young  man,  "Well,  Simpaticone,'^  it  was  the  nick- 
name she  gave  him,  "how  did  you  finish  your  eve- 
ning?" 

"You  would  not  believe  me,"  replied  Peppino  Ardea, 
laughing;  "I,  who  no  longer  have  anything,  not  even 
my  bed.  I  went  to  the  club  and  I  played.  .  .  .  For 
the  first  time  in  my  life  I  won." 

He  was  so  gay  in  relating  his  childish  prank,  he 
jested  so  merrily  about  his  ruin,  that  the  Countess 
looked  at  him  in  surprise,  as  he  had  looked  at  her  on 
entering.  .  .  .  We  understand  ourselves  so  little,  and 
we  know  so  little  about  our  own  singularities  of  char- 
acter, that  each  one  was  surprised  at  finding  the  other 
so  calm.  Ardea  could  not  comprehend  that  Madame 
Steno  should  not  be  at  least  uneasy  about  Gorka's 
return  and  the  consequences  which  might  result  there- 
from.    She,  on  the  other  hand,  admired  the  .strange 

[13M 


COSMOPOLIS 

youth  who,  in  his  misfortune,  could  find  such  joviaHty 
at  his  command.  He  had  evidently  expended  as  much 
care  upon  his  toilette  as  if  he  had  not  to  take  some 
immediate  steps  to  assure  his  future,  and  his  waistcoat, 
the  color  of  his  shirt,  his  cravat,  his  yellow  shoes,  the 
flower  in  his  buttonhole,  all  united  to  make  of  him 
an  amiable  and  incorrigibly  frivolous  dandy.  She  felt 
the  need  which  strong  characters  have  in  the  presence 
of  weak  ones;  that  of  acting  for  the  youth,  of  aiding 
him  in  spite  of  himself,  and  she  attacked  at  once  the 
question  of  marriage  with  Fanny  Hafner.  With  her 
usual  common-sense,  and  with  her  instinct  of  arrang- 
ing everything,  Madame  Steno  perceived  in  the  union 
so  many  advantages  for  every  one  that  she  was  in 
haste  to  conclude  it  as  quickly  as  if  it  involved  a  per- 
sonal affair. 

The  marriage  was  earnestly  desired  by  the  Baron, 
who  had  spoken  of  it  to  her  for  months.  It  suited 
Fanny,  who  would  be  converted  to  Catholicism  with 
the  consent  of  her  father.  It  suited  the  Prince,  who 
at  one  stroke  would  be  freed  from  his  embarrassment. 
Finally,  it  suited  the  name  of  Castagna.  Although  Pep- 
])ino  was  its  only  representative  at  that  time,  and  as, 
by  an  old  family  tradition,  he  bore  a  title  different 
from  the  patronymic  title  of  Pope  Urban  VII,  the  sale 
of  the  celebrated  palace  had  called  forth  a  scandal  to 
which  it  was  essential  to  put  an  end.  The  Countess 
Imd  forgotten  that  she  had  assisted,  without  a  pro- 
testation, in  that  sale.  Had  she  not  known  through 
Hafner  that  he  had  bought  at  a  low  price  an  enormous 
heap  of  the  Prince's  bills  of  exchange?     Did  she  not 

[137] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

know  the  Baron  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  M.  Noe 
Ancona,  the  implacable  creditor  who  sold  the  palace, 
was  only  the  catspaw  of  this  terrible  friend?  In  a  fit 
of  ill-humor  at  the  Baron,  had  she  not  herself  accused 
him  in  Alba's  presence  of  this  very  simple  plan,  to 
bring  Ardea  to  a  final  catastrophe  in  order  to  offer 
him  salvation  in  the  form  of  the  union  with  Fanny, 
and  to  execute  at  the  same  time  an  excellent  operation  ? 
For,  once  freed  from  the  mortgages  which  burdened 
them,  the  Prince's  lands  and  buildings  would  regain 
their  true  value,  and  the  imprudent  speculator  would 
find  himself  again  as  rich,  perhaps  richer. 

"Come,"  said  Madame  Steno  to  the  Prince,  after 
a  moment's  silence  and  without  any  preamble,  "it  is 
now  time  to  talk  business.  You  dined  by  the  side 
of  my  little  friend  yesterday ;  you  had  the  entire  eve- 
ning in  which  to  study  her.  Answer  me  frankly,  would 
she  not  make  the  prettiest  little  Roman  princess  who 
could  kneel  in  her  wedding-gown  at  the  tomb  of  the 
apostles?  Can  you  not  see  her  in  her  white  gown, 
under  her  veil,  alighting  at  the  staircase  of  Saint  Peter's 
from  the  carriage  with  the  superb  horses  which  her 
father  has  given  her?  Close  your  eyes  and  see  her  in 
your  thoughts.  Would  she  not  be  pretty?  Would 
she  not?" 

"Very  pretty,"  replied  Ardea,  smiling  at  the  tempt- 
ing vision  Madame  Steno  had  conjured  up,  "but  she 
is  not  fair.  And  you  know,  to  me,  a  woman  who  is 
not  fair  all,  Countess!  What  a  pity  that  in  Venice, 
five  years  ago,  on  a  certain  evening — do  you  remem- 
ber?" 


COSMOPOLIS 

"How  much  like  you  that  is!"  interrupted  she, 
laughing  her  deep,  clear  laugh.  "You  came  to  see 
me  this  morning  to  talk  to  me  of  a  marriage,  unhoped 
for  with  your  reputation  of  gamester,  of  supper-giver, 
of  mauvais  siijet ;  of  a  marriage  which  fulfils  conditions 
almost  improbable,  so  perfect  are  they — beauty,  youth, 
intelligence,  fortune,  and  even,  if  I  have  read  my  lit- 
tle friend  aright,  the  beginning  of  an  interest,  of  a 
very  deep  interest.  And,  for  a  little,  you  would  make 
a  declaration  to  me.  Come,  come!"  and  she  extended 
to  him  for  a  kiss  her  beautiful  hand,  on  which  gleamed 
large  emeralds.  "You  are  forgiven.  But  answer — 
yes  or  no.  Shall  I  make  the  proposal?  If  it  is  yes, 
I  will  go  to  the  Palace  Savorelli  at  two  o'clock.  I 
will  speak  to  my  friend  Hafner.  He  will  speak  to  his 
daughter,  and  it  will  not  depend  upon  me  if  you 
have  not  their  reply  this  evening  or  to-morrow  morning. 
Is  it  yes?     Is  it  no?" 

"  This  evening  ?  To-morrow  ?  "  exclaimed  the  Prince, 
shaking  his  head  with  a  most  comical  gesture.  "I  can 
not  decide  like  that.  It  is  an  ambush!  I  come  to 
talk,  to  consult  you." 

"And  on  what?"  asked  Madame  Steno,  with  a 
vivacity  almost  impatient.  "Can  I  tell  you  anything 
you  do  not  already  know?  In  twenty-four  hours,  in 
forty-eight,  in  six  months,  what  difference  will  there 
be,  I  pray  you  ?  We  must  look  at  things  as  they  are, 
however.  To-morrow,  the  day  after,  the  following 
days,  will  you  be  less  embarrassed?" 

"No,"  said  the  Prince,  "but " 

"There  is  no  but,"  she  resumed,  allowing  him  to  say 
[139] 


PAUL  BOLRGET 

no  more  than  she  had  allowed  her  intendant.  The  des- 
potism natural  to  puissant  personalities  scorned  to  be 
disguised  in  her,  when  there  were  practical  decisions 
in  which  she  was  to  take  part.  "The  only  serious 
objection  you  made  to  me  when  I  spoke  to  you  of  this 
marriage  six  months  ago  was  that  Fanny  was  not  a 
Catholic.  I  know  to-day  that  she  has  only  to  be  asked 
to  be  converted.     So  do  not  let  us  speak  of  that." 

''No,"  said  the  Prince,  "but " 

"As  for  Hafner, "  continued  the  Countess,  "you  will 
say  he  is  my  friend  and  that  I  am  partial,  but  that 
partiality  even  is  an  opinion.  He  is  precisely  the 
father-in-law  you  need.  Do  not  shake  your  head. 
He  will  repair  all  that  needs  repairing  in  your  fortune. 
You  have  been  robbed,  my  poor  Peppino.  You  told 
me  so  yourself.  .  .  Become  the  Baron's  son-in-law, 
and  you  will  have  news  of  your  robbers.  I  know. 
.  .  .  There  is  the  Baron's  origin  and  the  suit  of  ten 
years  ago  with  all  the  pettogolezzi  to  which  it  gave  rise. 
All  that  has  not  the  common  meaning.  The  Baron 
began  life  in  a  small  way.  He  was  from  a  family  of 
Jewish  origin — you  see,  I  do  not  deceive  you — but 
converted  two  generations  back,  so  that  the  story  of 
his  change  of  religion  since  his  stay  in  Italy  is  a 
calumny,  like  the  rest.  He  had  a  suit  in  which  he 
was  accjuitted.  You  would  not  require  more  than  the 
law,  would  you?" 

"No,  but " 

"For  what  are  you  waiting,  then  ?"  concluded  Ma- 
dame Steno.  "That  it  may  be  too  late?  How  about 
your  lands?" 

[140] 


COSMOPOLIS 

^'Ah!  let  me  breathe,  let  me  fan  myself,"  said  Ardea, 
who,  indeed,  took  one  of  the  Countess's  fans  from  the 
desk.  "I,  who  have  never  known  in  the  morning  what 
I  would  do  in  the  evening,  I,  who  have  always  lived 
according  to  my  pleasure,  you  ask  me  to  take  in  five 
minutes  the  resolution  to  bind  myself  forever!" 

"I  ask  you  to  decide  what  you  wish  to  do,"  returned 
the  Countess.  "It  is  very  amusing  to  travel  at  one's 
pleasure.  But  when  it  is  a  question  of  arranging  one's 
life,  this  childishness  is  too  absurd.  I  know  of  only 
one  way:  to  see  one's  aim  and  to  march  directly  to  it. 
Yours  is  very  clear — to  get  out  of  this  dilemma.  The 
way  is  not  less  clear;  it  is  marriage  with  a  girl  who  has 
five  millions  dowry.  Yes  or  no,  will  you  have  her  ?  .  .  . 
Ah,"  said  she,  suddenly  interrupting  herself,  "I  shall 
not  have  a  moment  to  myself  this  morning,  and  I  have 
an  appointment  at  eleven  o'clock!"  .  .  .  She  looked 
at  the  timepiece  on  her  table,  which  indicated  twenty- 
five  minutes  past  ten.  She  had  heard  the  door  open. 
The  footman  was  already  before  her  and  presented  to 
her  a  card  upon  a  salver.  She  took  the  card,  looked 
at  it,  frowned,  glanced  again  at  the  clock,  seemed  to 
hesitate,  then:  "Let  him  wait  in  the  small  salon,  and 
say  that  I  will  be  there  immediately,"  said  she,  and 
turning  again  toward  Ardea:  "You  think  you  have  es- 
caped. You  have  not.  I  do  not  give  you  permission 
to  go  before  I  return.  I  shall  return  in  fifteen  minutes. 
Would  you  like  some  newspapers?  There  are  some. 
Books?  There  are  some.  Tobacco?  This  box  is 
filled  with  cigars.  ...  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  shall 
be  here  and  I  will  have  your  reply.     I  wish  it,  do  you 

[141] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

hear?  I  wish  it."  .  .  .  And,  on  the  threshold,  with 
another  smile,  using  that  time  a  term  of  patois  common 
in  Northern  Italy  and  which  is  only  a  corruption  of 
schiavo  or  servant:    Ciao  Simpaticone. 

"What  a  woman!"  said  Peppino  Ardea,  when  the 
door  was  closed  upon  the  Countess.  "Yes,  what  a 
pity  that  five  years  ago  in  Venice  I  was  not  free!  Who 
knows?  If  I  had  dared,  when  she  took  me  to  my 
hotel  in  her  gondola.  She  was  about  to  leave  San 
Giobbe.  She  had  not  yet  accepted  Boleslas.  She 
would  have  advised — have  directed  me.  I  should  have 
speculated  on  the  Bourse,  as  she  did,  with  Hafner's 
counsel.  But  not  in  the  quality  of  son-in-law.  I 
should  not  have  been  obliged  to  marry.  And  she 
would  not  now  have  such  bad  tobacco. "...  He  was 
on  the  point  of  lighting  one  of  the  Virginian  cigarettes, 
a  present  from  Maitland.  He  threw  it  away,  making 
a  grimace  with  his  air  of  a  spoiled  child,  at  the  risk  of 
scorching  the  rug  which  lay  upon  the  marble  floor; 
and  he  passed  into  the  antechamber  in  order  to  fetch 
his  own  case  in  the  pocket  of  the  light  overcoat  he  had 
prudently  taken  on  coming  out  after  eight  o'clock. 

As  he  lighted  one  of  the  cigarettes  in  that  case,  filled 
with  so-called  Egyptian  tobacco,  mixed  with  opium 
and  saltpetre,  which  lie  preferred  to  the  tobacco  of  the 
American,  he  mechanically  glanced  at  the  card  which 
the  servant  had  left  on  going  from  the  room — the 
(  ani  of  the  unknown  visitor  for  whom  Madame  Steno 
had  k'ft  him. 

Ardea  read  upon  it,  wilii  astonishment,  these  words: 
Count  Boleslas  Gorka. 

[142] 


COSMOPOLIS 

"She  is  better  than  I  thought  her,"  said  he,  on  re- 
entering the  deserted  office.  "She  had  no  need  to  bid 
me  not  to  go.  I  think  I  should  wait  to  see  her  return 
from  that  conversation." 

It  was  indeed  Boleslas  whom  the  Countess  found  in 
the  salon,  which  she  had  chosen  as  the  room  the  most 
convenient  for  the  stormy  explanation  she  anticipated. 
It  was  isolated  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  and  was  like  a 
pendant  to  the  terrace.  It  formed,  with  the  dining- 
room,  the  entire  ground-floor,  or,  rather,  the  entresol 
of  the  house.  Madame  Steno's  apartments,  as  well 
as  the  other  small  salon  in  which  Peppino  was,  were 
on  the  first  floor,  together  with  the  rooms  set  apart 
for  the  Contessina  and  her  German  governess,  Frau- 
lein  Weber,  for  the  time  being  on  a  journey. 

The  Countess  had  not  been  mistaken.  At  the  first 
glance  exchanged  on  the  preceding  day  with  Gorka, 
she  had  divined  that  he  knew  all.  She  would  have 
suspected  it,  nevertheless,  since  Hafner  had  told  her 
the  few  words  indiscreetly  uttered  by  Dorsenne  on 
the  clandestine  return  of  the  Pole  to  Rome.  She  had 
not  at  that  time  been  mistaken  in  Boleslas's  inten- 
tions, and  she  had  no  sooner  looked  in  his  face  than 
she  felt  herself  to  be  in  peril.  When  a  man  has  been 
the  lover  of  a  woman  as  that  man  had  been  hers, 
with  the  vibrating  communion  of  a  voluptuousness 
unbroken  for  two  years,  that  woman  maintains  a  sort 
of  physiological,  quasi-animal  instinct.  A  gesture,  the 
accent  of  a  word,  a  sigh,  a  blush,  a  pallor,  are  signs 
for  her  that  her  intuition  interprets  with  infallible  cer- 
tainty.    How  and  why  is  that  instinct  accompanied 

[143] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

by  absolute  oblivion  of  former  caresses?  It  is  a  par- 
ticular case  of  that  insoluble  and  melancholy  problem 
of  the  birth  and  death  of  love.  Madame  Steno  had 
no  taste  for  reflection  of  that  order.  Like  all  vigorous 
and  simple  creatures,  she  acknowledged  and  accepted 
it.  As  on  the  previous  day,  she  became  aware  that 
the  presence  of  her  former  lover  no  longer  touched  in 
her  being  the  chord  which  had  rendered  her  so  weak 
to  him  during  twenty-five  months,  so  indulgent  to  his 
slightest  caprices.  It  left  her  as  cold  as  the  marble 
of  the  bas-relief  by  Mino  da  Fiesole  fitted  into  the 
wall  just  above  the  high  chair  upon  which  he  leaned. 
Boleslas,  notwithstanding  the  paroxysm  of  lucid 
fury  which  he  suffered  at  that  moment,  and  which 
rendered  him  capable  of  the  worst  violence,  had  on 
his  part  a  knowledge  of  the  complete  insensibility  in 
which  his  presence  left  her.  He  had  seen  her  so  often, 
in  the  course  of  their  long  liaison,  arrive  at  their  morn- 
ing rendezvous  at  that  hour,  in  similar  toilettes,  so 
fresh,  so  supple,  so  youthful  in  her  maturity,  so  eager 
for  kisses,  tender  and  ardent.  She  had  now  in  her 
blue  eyes,  in  her  smile,  in  her  entire  person,  some- 
thing at  once  so  gracious  and  so  inaccessible,  which 
gives  to  an  abandoned  lover  the  mad  longing  to  strike, 
to  murder,  a  woman  who  smiles  at  him  with  such  a 
smile.  At  the  same  time  she  was  so  beautiful  in  the 
morning  light,  subdued  by  tlic  lowered  blinds,  that 
she  inspired  him  with  an  equal  desire  to  clasp  her  in 
his  arms  whether  she  would  or  no.  He  had  recognized, 
when  she  entered  the  room,  the  aroma  of  a  prepara- 
tion which  she  had  used   in  hir  bath,  and  that  trifle 

[144  J 


COSMOPOLIS 

alone  had  aroused  his  passion  far  more  than  when  the 
servant  told  him  Madame  Steno  was  engaged,  and 
he  wondered  whether  she  was  not  alone  with  Maitland. 
Those  impassioned,  but  suppressed,  feelings  trembled 
in  the  accent  of  the  very  simple  phrase  with  which  he 
greeted  her.  At  certain  moments,  words  are  nothing; 
it  is  the  tone  in  which  they  are  uttered.  And  to  the 
Countess  that  of  the  young  man  was  terrible. 

"  I  am  disturbing  you  ?  "  he  asked,  bowing  and  barely 
touching  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers  the  hand  she  had 
extended  to  him  on  entering.  "Excuse  me,  I  thought 
you  alone.  Will  you  be  pleased  to  name  another  time 
for  the  conversation  which  I  take  the  liberty  of  de- 
manding?" 

"No,  no,"  she  replied,  not  permitting  him  to  finish 
his  sentence.  "I  was  with  Peppino  Ardea,  who  will 
await  me,"  said  she,  gently.  "Moreover,  you  know 
I  am  in  all  things  for  the  immediate.  When  one  has 
something  to  say,  it  should  be  said,  one,  two,  three! 
.  .  .  First,  there  is  not  much  to  say,  and  then  it  is 
better  said.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  that  will  sooner 
render  difficult  easy  explanations  and  embroil  the  best 
of  friends  than  delay  and  maintaining  silence." 

"I  am  very  happy  to  find  you  in  such  a  mind," 
replied  Boleslas,  with  a  sarcasm  which  distorted  his 
handsome  face  into  a  smile  of  atrocious  hatred.  The 
good-nature  displayed  by  her  cut  him  to  the  heart, 
and  he  continued,  already  less  self-possessed:  "It  is 
indeed  an  explanation  which  I  think  I  have  the  right 
to  ask  of  you,  and  which  I  have  come  to  claim. " 

"To  claim,  my  dear?"  said  the  Countess,  looking 
lo  [  145  ] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

him  fixedly  in  the  face  without  lowering  her  proud 
eyes,  in  which  those  imperative  words  had  kindled  a 
flame. 

If  she  had  been  admirable  the  preceding  evening  in 
facing  as  she  had  done  the  return  of  her  discarded 
lover,  on  coming  direct  from  the  tete-a-tete  with  her 
new  one,  perhaps,  at  that  moment,  she  was  doubly 
so,  when  she  did  not  have  her  group  of  intimate  friends 
to  support  her.  She  was  not  sure  that  the  madman 
who  confronted  her  was  not  armed,  and  she  believed 
him  perfectly  capable  of  killing  her,  while  she  could 
not  defend  herself.  But  a  part  had  to  be  played 
sooner  or  later,  and  she  played  it  without  flinching. 
She  had  not  spoken  an  untruth  in  saying  to  Peppino 
Ardea:  "I  know  only  one  way:  to  see  one's  aim  and  to 
march  direcdy  to  it. "  She  wanted  a  definitive  rupture 
with  Boleslas.  Why  should  she  hesitate  as  to  the 
means  ? 

She  was  silent,  seeking  for  words.     He  continued: 

"Will  you  permit  me  to  go  back  three  months, 
although  that  is,  it  seems,  a  long  space  of  time  for  a 
woman's  memory?  I  do  not  know  whether  you  recall 
our  last  meeting?  Pardon,  I  meant  to  say  the  last 
but  one,  since  we  met  last  night.  Do  you  concede  that 
the  manner  in  which  we  parted  then  did  not  presage 
the  manner  in  which  wc  met?" 

"I  concede  it,"  said  ihr  Countess,  with  a  gleam  of 
angry  pride  in  her  eyes,  "although  I  do  not  very  much 
like  your  style  of  exj^ression.  It  is  the  second  time 
you  have  addressed  me  as  an  accuser,  and  if  you 
assume  that  attitude  it  will  be  useless  to  continue. " 

[146] 


COSMOPOLIS 

"Catherine!"  .  .  .  That  cry  of  the  young  man, 
whose  anger  was  increasing,  decided  her  whom  he  thus 
addressed  to  precipitate  the  issue  of  a  conversation 
in  which  each  reply  was  to  be  a  fresh  burst  of  rancor, 

"Well?"  she  inquired,  crossing  her  arms  in  a  man- 
ner so  imperious  that  he  paused  in  his  menace,  and 
she  continued:  "Listen,  Boleslas,  we  have  talked  ten 
minutes  without  saying  anything,  because  neither  of 
us  has  the  courage  to  put  the  question  such  as  we 
know  and  feel  it  to  be.  Instead  of  writing  to  me,  as 
you  did,  letters  which  rendered  replies  impossible  to 
me;  instead  of  returning  to  Rome  and  hiding  yourself 
like  a  malefactor;  instead  of  coming  to  my  home  last 
night  with  that  threatening  face;  instead  of  approach- 
ing mc  this  morning  with  the  solemnity  of  a  judge, 
why  did  you  not  question  mc  simply,  frankly,  as  one 
who  knows  that  I  have  loved  him  very,  very  much  ? 
.  .  .  Having  been  lovers,  is  that  a  reason  for  detest- 
ing each  other  when  we  cease  those  relations?" 

"'When  we  cease  those  relations!'"  replied  Gorka. 
"So  you  no  longer  love  me?  Ah,  I  knew  it;  I  guessed 
it  after  the  first  week  of  that  fatal  absence!  But  to 
think  that  you  should  tell  it  to  me  some  day  like  that, 
in  that  calm  voice  which  is  a  horrible  blasphemy  for 
our  entire  past.  No,  I  do  not  believe  it.  I  do  not 
yet  believe  it.     Ah,  it  is  too  infamous," 

"Why?"  interrupted  the  Countess,  raising  her  head 
with  still  more  haughtiness.  "There  is  only  one 
thing  infamous  in  love,  and  that  is  a  falsehood.  Ah,  I 
know  it.  You  men  are  not  accustomed  to  meeting 
true  women,  who  have  the  respect,  the  religion  of  their 

[147] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

sentiment.  I  have  that  respect;  I  practise  that  re- 
hgion.  I  repeat  that  I  loved  you  a  great  deal,  Boleslas. 
I  did  not  hide  it  from  you  formerly.  I  was  as  loyal 
to  you  as  truth  itself.  I  have  the  consciousness  of  be- 
ing so  still,  in  offering  you,  as  I  do,  a  firm  friendship, 
the  friendship  of  man  for  man,  who  only  asks  to  prove 
to  you  the  sincerity  of  his  devotion." 

"I,  a  friendship  with  you,  I — I — I?"  exclaimed 
Boleslas.  "Have  I  had  enough  patience  in  listening 
to  you  as  I  have  listened?  I  heard  you  lie  to  me 
and  scented  the  lie  in  the  same  breath.  Why  do  you 
not  ask  me  as  well  to  form  a  friendship  for  him  with 
whom  you  have  replaced  me?  Ah,  so  you  think  I 
am  bhnd,  and  you  fancy  I  did  not  see  that  Maitland 
near  you,  and  that  I  did  not  know  at  the  first  glance 
what  part  he  was  playing  in  your  life?  You  did  not 
think  I  might  have  good  reasons  for  returning  as  I 
did  ?  You  did  not  know  that  one  does  not  dally  with 
one  whom  one  loves  as  I  love  you  ?  ...  It  is  not  true. 
.  .  .  You  have  not  been  loyal  to  me,  since  you  took 
this  man  for  a  lover  while  you  were  still  my  mistress. 
You  had  not  the  right,  no,  no,  no,  you  had  not  the 
right!  .  .  .  And  what  a  man!  ...  If  it  had  been 
Ardea,  Dorsennc,  no  matter  whom,  that  I  might  not 
blush  for  you.  .  .  .  But  that  brute,  that  idiot,  who 
has  nothing  in  his  favor,  neither  good  looks,  birth, 
elegance,  mind  nor  talent,  for  he  has  none — he  has 
notliing  hut  his  neck  and  shoulders  of  a  IduII.  ...  It 
is  as  if  you  had  deceived  me  with  a  lackey.  .  .  .No. 
....  it  is  too  terrible.  .  .  .  Ah,  Catherine,  swear  to 
me  that  it  is  not  true.     Tell  me  that  you  no  longer 

[148] 


COSMOPOLIS 

love  me,  I  will  submit,  I  will  go  away,  I  will  accept  all, 
provided  that  you  swear  to  me  you  do  not  love  that 
man— swear,  swear!"  ...  he  added,  grasping  her 
hands  with  such  violence  that  she  uttered  a  slight 
exclamation,  and,  disengaging  herself,  said  to  him: 

"Cease;  you  pain  me.  You  are  mad,  Gorka;  that 
can  be  your  sole  excuse.  ...  I  have  nothing  to  swear 
to  you.  What  I  feel,  what  I  think,  what  I  do  no  longer 
concerns  you  after  what  I  have  told  you.  .  .  .  Believe 
what  it  pleases  you  to  believe.  .  .  .  But,"  and  the 
irritation  of  an  enamored  woman,  wounded  in  the 
man  she  adores,  possessed  her,  "you  shall  not  speak 
twice  of  one  of  my  friends  as  you  have  just  spoken. 
You  have  deeply  offended  me,  and  I  will  not  pardon 
you.  In  place  of  the  friendship  I  offered  you  so  hon- 
estly, we  will  have  no  further  connections  excepting 
those  of  society.  That  is  what  you  desired.  .  .  . 
Try  not  to  render  them  impossible  to  yourself.  Be 
correct  at  least  in  form.  Remember  you  have  a  wife, 
I  have  a  daughter,  and  that  we  owe  it  to  them  to  spare 
them  the  knowledge  of  this  unhappy  rupture.  .  .  . 
God  is  my  witness,  I  wished  to  have  it  otherwise." 

"My  wife!  Your  daughter!"  cried  Boleslas  with 
bitterness.  "This  is  indeed  the  hour  to  remember 
them  and  to  put  them  between  you  and  my  just  ven- 
geance! They  never  troubled  you  formerly,  the  two 
poor  creatures,  when  you  began  to  win  my  love? 
...  It  was  convenient  for  you  that  they  should  be 
friends !  And  I  lent  myself  to  it !  ...  I  accepted  such 
baseness — that  to-day  you  might  take  shelter  behind 
the  two  innocents!  .  .  .  No,  it  shall  not  be.  .  .  .  No, 

[149] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

you  shall  not  escape  me  thus.  Since  it  is  the  only 
point  on  which  I  can  strike  you,  I  will  strike  you  there. 
I  hold  you  by  that  means,  do  you  hear,  and  I  will  keep 
you.  Either  you  dismiss  that  man,  or  I  will  no  longer 
respect  anything.  My  wife  shall  know  all!  Her!  So 
much  the  better !  For  some  time  I  have  been  stifled  by 
my  lies.  .  .  .  Your  daughter,  too,  shall  know  all.  She 
shall  judge  you  now  as  she  would  judge  you  one  day." 

As  he  spoke  he  advanced  to  her  with  a  manner  so 
cruel  that  she  recoiled.  A  few  more  moments  and  the 
man  would  have  carried  out  his  threat.  He  was  about 
to  strike  her,  to  break  objects  around  him,  to  call 
forth  a  terrible  scandal.  She  had  the  presence  of 
mind  of  an  audacity  more  courageous  still.  An  elec- 
tric bell  was  near  at  hand.  She  pressed  it,  while 
Gorka  said  to  her,  with  a  scornful  laugh,  "That  was 
the  only  affront  left  you  to  offer  me — to  summon  your 
servants  to  defend  you." 

''  You  arc  mistaken, "  she  replied.  "  I  am  not  afraid. 
I  repeat  you  arc  mad,  and  I  simply  wish  to  prove  it 
to  you  by  recalling  you  to  the  reality  of  your  situation. 
.  .  .  Bid  Mademoiselle  Alba  come  down,"  said  she 
to  the  footman  whom  her  ring  had  summoned.  That 
phrase  was  the  drop  of  cold  water  which  suddenly 
l)roke  the  furious  jet  of  vapor.  She  had  found  the 
only  means  of  putting  an  end  to  the  terrible  scene. 
For,  notwithstanding  his  menace,  she  knew  that 
Maud's  husband  always  recoiled  before  tlie  young 
girl,  the  friend  of  his  wife,  of  whose  delicacy  and  sen- 
sibility he  was  aware. 

Gorka  was  capable  of  tlir  most  dangerous  and  most 
[150] 


COSMOPOLIS 

cruel  deeds,  in  an  excess  of  passion  augmented  by 
vanity. 

He  had  in  him  a  chivalrous  element  which  would 
paralyze  his  frenzy  before  Alba.  As  for  the  immor- 
ality of  that  combination  of  defence  which  involved 
her  daughter  in  her  rupture  with  a  vindictive  lover, 
the  Countess  did  not  think  of  that.  She  often  said: 
"She  is  my  comrade,  she  is  my  friend."  .  .  .  And  she 
thought  so.  To  lean  upon  her  in  that  critical  moment 
was  only  natural  to  her.  In  the  tempest  of  indigna- 
tion which  shook  Gorka,  the  sudden  appeal  to  innocent 
Alba  appeared  to  him  the  last  degree  of  cynicism. 
During  the  short  space  of  time  which  elapsed  between 
the  departure  of  the  footman  and  the  arrival  of  the 
young  girl,  he  only  uttered  these  words,  repeating  them 
as  he  paced  the  floor,  while  his  former  mistress  de- 
fied him  with  her  bold  gaze: 

"I  scorn  you,  I  scorn  you;  ah,  how  I  scorn  you!" 
Then,  when  he  heard  the  door  open:  "We  will  re- 
sume our  conversation,  Madame." 

"When  you  wish,"  replied  Countess  Steno,  and  to 
her  daughter,  who  entered,  she  said:  "You  know  the 
carriage  is  to  come  at  ten  minutes  to  eleven,  and  it  is 
now  the  quarter.     Are  you  ready?" 

"You  can  see,"  replied  the  young  girl,  displaying 
her  pearl-gray  gloves,  which  she  was  just  buttoning, 
while  on  her  head  a  large  hat  of  black  tulle  made  a 
dark  and  transparent  aureole  around  her  fair  head. 
Her  delicate  bust  was  displayed  to  advantage  in  the 
corsage  Maitland  had  chosen  for  her  portrait,  a  sort 
of  cuirass  of  a  dark-blue  material,  finished  at  the  neck 

[151] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

and  wrists  with  bands  of  velvet  of  a  darker  shade. 
The  fine  Knes  of  cuffs  and  a  collar  gave  to  that  pure 
face  a  grace  of  youth  younger  than  her  age. 

She  had  evidently  come  at  her  mother's  call,  with 
the  haste  and  the  smile  of  that  age.  Then,  to  see 
Gorka's  expression  and  the  feverish  brilliance  of  the 
Countess's  eyes  had  given  her  what  she  called,  in  an 
odd  but  very  appropriate  way,  the  sensation  of  "a 
needle  in  the  heart,"  of  a  sharp,  fine  point,  which  en- 
tered her  breast  to  the  left.  She  had  slept  a  sleep  so 
profound,  after  the  soiree  of  the  day  before,  on  which 
she  had  thought  she  perceived  in  her  mother's  attitude 
between  the  Polish  count  and  the  American  painter  a 
proof  of  certain  innocence. 

She  admired  her  mother  so  much,  she  thought  her 
so  intelligent,  so  beautiful,  so  good,  that  to  doubt  her 
was  a  thought  not  to  be  borne!  There  were  times 
when  she  doubted  her.  A  terrible  conversation  about 
the  Countess,  overheard  in  a  ballroom,  a  conversa- 
tion between  two  men,  who  did  not  know  Alba  to  be 
behind  them,  had  formed  the  principal  part  of  the 
doubt,  which,  by  turns,  had  increased  and  diminished, 
which  had  abandoned  and  tortured  her,  according  to 
the  signs,  as  little  decisive  as  Madame  Steno's  tran- 
quillity of  the  preceding  day  or  her  confusion  that 
morning.  It  was  only  an  impression,  very  rapid,  in- 
stantaneous, the  prick  of  a  needle,  which  merely  leaves 
after  it  a  drop  of  blood,  and  yet  she  had  a  smile  with 
which  to  say  to  Bolcslas: 

"How  did  Maud  rest?  I  low  is  she  this  morning? 
And  my  little  friend  Luc?" 

[152] 


COSMOPOLIS 

*'Thcy  are  very  well,"  replied  Gorka.  The  last 
stage  of  his  fury,  suddenly  arrested  by  the  presence  of 
the  young  girl,  was  manifested,  but  only  to  the  Count- 
ess, by  the  simple  phrase  to  which  his  eyes  and  his 
voice  lent  an  extreme  bitterness:  "I  found  them  as  I 
left  them.  .  .  .Ah!  They  love  me  dearly.  ...  I 
leave  you  to  Peppino,  Countess,"  added  he,  walking 
toward  the  door.  ''Mademoiselle,  I  will  bear  your 
love  to  Maud."  ...  He  had  regained  all  the  courtesy 
which  a  long  line  of  savage  grands  scignci^rs,  but  grands 
seigneurs  nevertheless,  had  instilled  in  him.  If  his 
bow  to  Madame  Steno  was  very  ceremonious,  he  put 
a  special  grace  in  the  low  bow  with  which  he  took  leave 
of  the  Contessina.  It  was  merely  a  trifle,  but  the 
Countess  was  keen  enough  to  perceive  it.  She  was 
touched  by  it,  she  whom  despair,  fury,  and  threats 
had  found  so  impassive.  For  an  instant  she  was 
vaguely  humiliated  by  the  success  which  she  had 
gained  over  the  man  whom  she  would,  voluntarily, 
five  minutes  before,  have  had  cast  out  of  doors  by  her 
servants.  She  was  silent,  oblivious  even  of  her  daugh- 
ter's presence,  until  the  latter  recalled  her  to  herself 
by  saying: 

"Shall  I  put  on  my  veil  and  fetch  my  parasol?" 
"You  can  join  me  in  the  office,  whither  I  am  going 
to  talk  with  Ardea,"  rephed  her  mother;  adding,  "I 
shall  perhaps  have  some  news  to  tell  you  in  the  carriage 
which  will  give  you  pleasure!"  .  .  .  She  had  again 
her  bright  smile,  and  she  did  not  mistrust  while  she 
resumed  her  conversation  with  Peppino  that  poor  Alba, 
on  reentering  her  chamber,  wiped  from  her  pale  cheeks 

[153] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

two  large  tears,  and  that  she  opened,  to  re-read  it,  the 
infamous  anonymous  letter  received  the  day  before. 
She  knew  by  heart  all  the  perfidious  phrases.  Must 
it  not  have  been  that  the  mind  which  had  composed 
them  was  blinded  by  vengeance  to  such  a  degree  that 
it  had  no  scruples  about  laying  before  the  innocent 
child  a  denunciation  which  ran  thus: 

"A  true  jriend  of  Mademoiselle  Steno  warns  her 
that  she  is  compromised,  more  than  a  marriageable 
young  girl  should  be,  in  playing,  with  regard  to  M. 
Maitland  the  role  she  has  already  played  with  regard 
to  M.  Gorka.  There  are  conditions  of  blindness  so 
voluntary  that  they  becoyne  complicity.''^ 

Those  words,  enigmatical  to  any  one  else,  but  to 
the  Contessina  horribly  clear,  had  been,  like  the  let- 
ters of  which  Boleslas  had  told  Dorsenne,  cut  from  a 
journal  and  pasted  on  a  sheet  of  paper.  How  had 
Alba  trembled  on  reading  that  note  for  the  first  time, 
with  an  emotion  increased  by  the  horror  of  feeling 
hovering  over  her  and  her  mother  a  hatred  so  relent- 
less! Later  in  the  day  how  much  had  the  words  ex- 
changed with  Dorsenne  comforted  her,  and  how  re- 
assured had  she  been  by  the  Countess's  imperturbabil- 
ity on  the  entrance  of  Boleslas  Gorka!  Fragile  peace, 
wliich  had  vanished  when  she  saw  her  mother  and  the 
husband  of  her  best  friend  face  to  face,  with  traces  in 
their  eyes,  in  their  gestures,  upon  their  countenances, 
of  an  angry  scene!  The  thought  "Why  were  they 
thus!  What  had  they  said?"  again  occurred  to  her 
to  sadden   her.     Suddenly  .she  crushed   in  her  hand 

[i54l 


COSMOPOLIS 

with  violence  the  anonymous  letter,  which  gave  a  con- 
crete form  to  her  sorrow  and  her  suspicion,  and, 
lighting  a  taper,  she  held  it  to  the  paper,  which  the 
flames  soon  reduced  to  ashes.  She  ran  her  fmgers 
through  the  debris  until  there  was  very  little  left,  and 
then,  opening  the  window,  she  cast  it  to  the  winds. 

She  looked  at  her  glove  after  doing  this  —  her 
glove,  a  few  moments  before,  of  so  delicate  a  gray, 
now  stained  by  the  smoky  dust.  It  was  symbolical  of 
the  stain  which  the  letter,  even  when  destroyed,  had 
left  upon  her  mind.  The  gloves,  too,  inspired  her 
with  horror.  She  hastily  drew  them  off,  and,  when 
she  descended  to  rejoin  Madame  Steno,  it  was  not 
any  more  possible  to  perceive  on  those  hands,  freshly 
gloved,  the  traces  of  that  tragical  childishness,  than  it 
was  possible  to  discern,  beneath  the  large  veil  which 
she  had  tied  over  her  hat,  the  traces  of  tears.  She 
found  the  mother  for  whom  she  was  suffering  so  much, 
wearing,  too,  a  large  sun-hat,  but  a  white  one  with  a 
white  veil,  beneath  which  could  be  seen  her  fair  hair, 
her  sparkling  blue  eyes  and  pink-and-white  complexion; 
her  form  was  enveloped  in  a  gown  of  a  material  and 
cut  more  youthful  than  her  daughter's,  while,  radiant 
with  delight,  she  said  to  Peppino  Ardea : 

"Well,  I  congratulate  you  on  having  made  up  your 
mind.  The  step  shall  be  taken  to-day,  and  you  will 
be  grateful  to  me  all  your  life!" 

"Yet,"  replied  the  young  man,  "I  understand  my- 
self. I  shall  regret  my  decision  all  the  afternoon.  It 
is  true,"  he  added,  philosophically,  "that  I  should 
regret  it — just  as  much  if  I  had  not  made  it." 

[155] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"You  have  guessed  that  we  were  talking  of  Fanny's 
marriage,"  said  Madame  Steno  to  her  daughter  several 
minutes  later,  when  they  were  seated  side  by  side,  like 
two  sisters,  in  the  victoria  which  was  bearing  them 
toward  Maitland's  studio. 

"Then,"  asked  the  Contessina,  "you  think  it  will 
be  arranged?" 

"It  is  arranged,"  gayly  replied  Madame  Steno.  "I 
am  commissioned  to  make  the  proposition.  .  .  .  How 
happy  all  three  will  be!  .  .  .  Hafner  has  aimed  at  it 
this  long  time!  I  remember  how,  in  1880,  after  his 
suit,  he  came  to  see  me  in  Venice — you  and  Fanny 
played  on  the  balcony  of  the  palace — he  questioned 
me  about  the  Quirinal,  the  Vatican  and  society.  .  .  . 
Then  he  concluded,  pointing  to  his  daughter,  *I  shall 
make  a  Roman  princess  of  the  little  one!" 

The  dogaresse  was  so  delighted  at  the  thought  of 
the  success  of  her  negotiations,  so  delighted,  too,  to 
go,  as  she  was  going,  to  Maitland's  studio,  behind  her 
two  EngHsh  cobs,  which  trotted  so  briskly,  that  she 
did  not  see  on  the  sidewalk  Boleslas  Gorka,  who 
watched  her  pass. 

Alba  was  so  troubled  by  that  fresh  proof  of  her 
mother's  lack  of  conscience  that  she  did  not  notice 
Maud's  husband  cither.  Baron  Ilafner's  and  Prince 
d'Ardea's  manner  toward  Fanny  had  inspired  her  the 
day  before  with  a  dolorous  analogy  between  the  atmos- 
phere of  falsehood  in  which  that  poor  girl  lived  and 
the  atmosj)here  in  which  she  at  times  thought  she 
herself  lived.  That  analogy  again  possessed  her,  and 
she  again  IVU  llu-  "needle  in  the  heart"  as  she  recalled 

f  -SM 


COSMOPOLIS 

what  she  had  heard  before  from  the  Countess  of  the 
intrigue  by  which  Baron  Justus  Hafner  had,  indeed, 
ensnared  his  future  son-in-law.  She  was  overcome 
by  infinite  sadness,  and  she  lapsed  into  one  of  her 
usual  silent  moods,  while  the  Countess  related  to  her 
Peppino's  indecision.  What  cared  she  for  Boleslas's 
anger  at  that  moment?  What  could  he  do  to  her? 
Gorka  was  fully  aware  of  her  utter  carelessness  of  the 
scene  which  had  taken  place  between  them,  as  soon  as 
he  saw  the  victoria  pass.  For  some  time  he  remained 
standing,  watching  the  large  white  and  black  hats 
disappear  down  the  Rue  du  Vingt  Septembre. 

This  thought  took  possession  of  him  at  once.  Ma- 
dame Steno  and  her  daughter  were  going  to  Maitland's 
atelier.  ...  He  had  no  sooner  conceived  that  bitter 
suspicion  than  he  felt  the  necessity  of  proving  it  at 
once.  He  entered  a  passing  cab,  just  as  Ardea,  having 
left  the  Villa  Steno  after  him,  sauntered  up,  saying: 

"Where  are  you  going?  May  I  go  with  you  that 
we  may  have  a  few  moments'  conversation?" 

"Impossible,"  repHed  Gorka.  "I  have  a  very  ur- 
gent appointment,  but  in  an  hour  I  shall  perhaps  have 
occasion  to  ask  a  service  of  you.  .  .  .  Where  shall  I 
find  you?" 

"At  home,"  said  Peppino,  "lunching." 

"Very  well,"  replied  Boleslas,  and,  raising  himself, 
he  whispered  in  the  cabman's  car,  in  a  voice  too  low 
for  his  friend  to  hear  what  he  said:  "Ten  francs  for 
you  if  in  five  minutes  you  drive  me  to  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  Napoleon  HI  and  the  Place  de  la  Victor- 
Emmanuel." 

[157] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

The  man  gathered  up  his  reins,  and,  by  some 
sleight-of-hand,  the  jaded  horse  which  drew  the  hotte 
was  suddenly  transformed  into  a  fine  Roman  steed, 
the  bottc  itself  into  a  light  carriage  as  swift  as  the 
Tuscan  carrozzelle,  and  the  whole  disappeared  in  a 
cross  street,  while  Peppino  said  to  himself: 

"There  is  a  fine  fellow  who  would  do  so  much  bet- 
ter to  remain  with  his  friend  Ardea  than  to  go  whither 
he  is  going.  This  affair  will  end  in  a  duel.  If  I  had 
not  to  liquidate  that  folly,"  and  he  pointed  out  with 
the  end  of  his  cane  a  placard  relative  to  the  sale  of 
his  own  palace,  "I  would  amuse  myself  by  taking 
Caterina  from  both  of  them.  But  those  little  amuse- 
ments must  wait  until  after  my  marriage." 

As  we  have  seen,  the  cunning  Prince  had  not  been 
mistaken  as  to  the  course  taken  by  the  cab  Gorka  had 
hailed.  It  was  indeed  into  the  neighborhood  of  the 
atelier  occupied  by  Maitland  that  the  discarded  lover 
hastened,  but  not  to  the  atelier.  The  madman  wished 
to  prove  to  himself  that  the  exhibition  of  his  despair 
had  availed  him  nothing,  and  that,  scarcely  rid  of  him, 
Madame  Steno  had  repaired  to  the  other.  What 
would  it  avail  him  to  know  it  and  what  would  the 
evidence  j)r()vc?  Had  the  Countess  concealed  those 
sittings  those  convenient  sittings — as  the  jealous  lover 
had  tokl  Dor.senne?  The  very  thought  of  them  caused 
the  blood  to  flow  in  his  veins  much  more  feverishly 
than  (lid  the  llioughls  of  ihe  otlier  meetings.  For 
those  he  could  still  doubt,  notwithstanding  the  anony- 
mous letters,  notwithstanding  the  tctc-a-tete  on  the  ter- 
race, notwithstanding  the  insolent  "Linco,"  whom  she 

[158] 


COSMOPOLIS 

had  addressed  thus  before  him,  while  of  the  long 
intimacies  of  the  studio  he  was  certain.  They  mad- 
dened him,  and,  at  the  same  time,  by  that  strange 
contradiction  which  is  characteristic  of  all  jealousy, 
he  hungered  and  thirsted  to  prove  them. 

He  alighted  from  his  cab  at  the  corner  he  had  named 
to  his  cabman,  and  from  which  point  he  could  watch 
the  Rue  Leopardi,  in  which  was  his  rival's  house.  It 
was  a  large  structure  in  the  Moorish  style,  built  by  the 
celebrated  Spanish  artist,  Juan  Santigosa,  who  had 
been  obliged  to  sell  all  five  years  before — house,  stu- 
dio, horses,  completed  paintings,  sketches  begun — 
in  order  to  pay  immense  losses  at  gaming.  Florent 
Chapron  had  at  the  time  bought  the  sort  of  counterfeit 
Alhambra,  a  portion  of  which  he  rented  to  his  brother- 
in-law.  During  the  few  moments  that  he  stood  at  the 
corner,  Boleslas  Gorka  recalled  having  visited  that 
house  the  previous  year,  while  taking,  in  the  company 
of  Madame  Steno,  Alba,  Maud,  and  Hafner,  one  of 
those  walks  of  which  fashionable  women  are  so  fond 
in  Rome  as  well  as  in  Paris.  An  irrational  instinct 
had  rendered  the  painter  and  his  paintings  antipathetic 
to  him  at  their  first  meeting.  Had  he  had  sufficient 
cause  ?  Suddenly,  on  leaning  forward  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  to  see  without  being  seen,  he  perceived  a  vic- 
toria which  entered  the  Rue  Leopardi,  and  in  that  vic- 
toria the  black  hat  of  Mademoiselle  Steno  and  the  light 
one  of  her  mother.  In  two  minutes  more  the  elegant  car- 
riage drew  up  at  the  Moorish  structure,  which  gleamed 
among  the  other  buildings  in  that  street,  for  the  most 
part  unfinished,  with  a  sort  of  insolent  sumptuousness. 

[159] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

The  two  ladies  alighted  and  disappeared  through 
the  door,  which  closed  upon  them,  while  the  coachman 
started  up  his  horses  at  the  pace  of  animals  which  are 
returning  to  their  stable.  He  checked  them  that  they 
might  not  become  overheated,  and  the  fine  cobs 
trembled  impatiently  in  their  harnesses.  Evidently 
the  Countess  and  Alba  were  in  the  studio  for  a  long 
sitting.  What  had  Boleslas  learned  that  he  did  not 
already  know  ?  Was  he  not  ridiculous,  standing  upon 
the  sidewalk  of  the  square  in  the  centre  of  which  rose 
the  ruin  of  an  antique  reservoir,  called,  for  a  reason 
more  than  doubtful,  the  trophy  of  Marius.  With  one 
glance  the  young  man  took  in  this  scene — the  empty 
victoria  turning  in  the  opposite  direction,  the  large 
square,  the  ruin,  the  row  of  high  houses,  his  cab.  He 
appeared  to  himself  so  absurd  for  being  there  to  spy 
out  that  of  which  he  was  only  too  sure,  that  he  burst 
into  a  nervous  laugh  and  reentered  his  cab,  giving  his 
own  address  to  the  cabman:  Palazzctto  Doria,  Place 
de  Venise.  The  cab  that  time  started  off  leisurely, 
for  the  man  comprehended  that  the  mad  desire  to 
arrive  hastily  no  longer  possessed  his  fare.  By  a  sud- 
den metamorphosis,  the  swift  Roman  steed  became  a 
common  nag,  and  the  vehicle  a  heavy  machine  which 
rumbled  along  the  streets.  Boleslas  yielded  to  de- 
pression, the  inevitable  reaction  of  an  excess  of  violence 
such  as  he  had  just  experienced.  His  comfwsure 
could  not  last.  The  studio,  in  which  was  Madame 
Steno,  began  to  take  a  clear  form  in  the  jealous  lover's 
mind  in  proportion  as  he  drove  farther  from  it.  In 
his  thoughts  he  saw  his  former  mistress  walking  about 

[i6o] 


COSMOPOLIS 

in  the  framework  of  tapestry,  armor,  studies  begun,  as 
he  had  frequently  seen  her  walking  in  his  smoking- 
room,  with  the  smile  upon  her  lips  of  an  amorous 
woman,  touching  the  objects  among  which  her  lover 
lives.  He  saw  impassive  Alba,  who  served  as  chap- 
eron in  the  new  intrigue  of  her  mother's  with  the  same 
naivete  she  had  formerly  employed  in  shielding  their 
liaison.  He  saw  Maitland  with  his  indifferent  glance 
of  the  day  before,  the  glance  of  a  preferred  lover,  so 
sure  of  his  triumph  that  he  did  not  even  feel  jealous 
of  the  former  lover. 

The  absolute  tranquillity  of  one  who  replaces  us  in 
an  unfaithful  mistress's  affections  augments  our  fury 
still  more  if  we  have  the  misfortune  to  be  placed  in  a 
position  similar  to  Gorka's.  In  a  moment  his  rival's 
evocation  became  to  him  impossible  to  bear.  He  was 
very  near  his  own  home,  for  he  was  just  at  that  ad- 
mirable square  encumbered  with  the  debris  of  basihca, 
the  Forum  of  Trajan,  which  the  statue  of  St.  Peter  at 
the  summit  of  the  column  overlooks.  Around  the 
base  of  the  sculptured  marble,  legends  attest  the 
triumph  of  the  humble  Galilean  fisherman  who  landed 
at  the  port  of  the  Tiber  1800  years  ago,  unknown, 
persecuted,  a  beggar.  Wliat  a  symbol  and  what  coun- 
sel to  say  with  the  apostle:  "Whither  shall  we  go. 
Lord?     Thou  alone  hast  the  words  of  eternal  life!" 

But  Gorka  was  neither  a  Montfanon  nor  a  Dor- 
senne  to  hear  within  his  heart  or  his  mind  the  echo  of 
such  precepts.  He  was  a  man  of  passion  and  of  action, 
who  only  saw  his  passion  and  his  actions  in  the  posi- 
tion in  which  fortune  threw  him.  A  fresh  access  of 
II  [161] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

fury  recalled  to  him  Maitland's  attitude  of  the  preced- 
ing day.  This  time  he  would  no  longer  control  him- 
self. He  violently  pulled  the  surprised  coachman's 
sleeve,  and  called  out  to  him  the  address  of  the  Rue 
Leopardi  in  so  imperative  a  tone  that  the  horse  began 
again  to  trot  as  he  had  done  before,  and  the  cab  to 
go  quickly  through  the  labyrinth  of  streets.  A  wave 
of  tragical  desire  rolled  into  the  young  man's  heart. 
No,  he  would  not  bear  that  affront.  He  was  too  bit- 
terly wounded  in  the  most  sensitive  chords  of  his  being, 
in  his  love  as  well  as  his  pride.  Both  struggled  within 
him,  and  another  instinct  as  well,  urging  him  to  the 
mad  step  he  was  about  to  take.  The  ancient  blood 
of  the  Palatines,  with  regard  to  which  Dorsenne  always 
jested,  boiled  in  his  veins.  If  the  Poles  have  furnished 
many  heroes  for  dramas  and  modern  romances,  they 
have  remained,  through  their  faults,  so  dearly  atoned 
for,  the  race  the  most  chivalrously,  the  most  madly 
brave  in  Europe.  When  men  of  so  intemperate  and 
so  complex  an  excitability  are  touched  to  a  certain 
depth,  they  think  of  a  duel  as  naturally  as  the  de- 
scendants of  a  line  of  suicides  think  of  killing  them- 
selves. 

Joyous  Ardea,  with  his  Italian  keenness,  had  seen  at 
a  f^lance  the  end  to  which  Gorka's  nature  would  lead 
him.  The  betrayed  lover  required  a  duel  to  enable 
him  to  bear  the  treason.  He  might  wound,  he  might, 
perhaps,  kill  his  rival,  and  his  passion  would  be  satis- 
fied, or  else  he  would  risk  being  killed  himself,  and  the 
courage  he  would  disj)lay  braving  death  would  suffice 
to  raise  him  in  his  own  estimation.     A  mad  thought 

[162] 


COSMOPOLIS 

possessed  him  and  caused  him  to  hasten  toward  the 
Rue  Leopardi,  to  provoke  his  rival  suddenly  and  before 
Madame  Steno!  Ah,  what  pleasure  it  would  give  him 
to  see  her  tremble,  for  she  surely  would  tremble  when 
she  saw  him  enter  the  studio!  But  he  would  be  cor- 
rect, as  she  had  so  insolently  asked  him  to  be.  He 
would  go,  so  to  speak,  to  see  Alba's  portrait.  He 
would  dissemble,  then  he  would  be  better  able  to  find 
a  pretext  for  an  argument.  It  is  so  easy  to  find  one 
in  the  simplest  conversation,  and  from  an  argument 
a  quarrel  is  soon  born.  He  would  speak  in  such  a 
manner  that  Maitland  would  have  to  answer  him. 
The  rest  would  follow.  But  would  Alba  Steno  be 
present?  Ha,  so  much  the  better!  He  would  be  so 
much  more  at  ease,  if  the  altercation  arose  before  her, 
to  deceive  his  own  wife  as  to  the  veritable  reason  of 
the  duel.  Ah,  he  would  have  his  dispute  at  any  price, 
and  from  the  moment  that  the  seconds  had  exchanged 
visits  the  American's  fate  would  be  decided.  He 
knew  how  to  render  it  impossible  for  the  fellow  to 
remain  longer  in  Rome.  The  young  man  was  greatly 
wrought  up  by  the  romance  of  the  provocation  and 
the  duel. 

*'How  it  refreshes  the  blood  to  be  avenged  upon 
two  fools,"  said  he  to  himself,  descending  from  his 
cab  and  inquiring  at  the  door  of  the  Moorish  house. 

"Monsieur  Maitland?"  he  asked  the  footman,  who 
at  one  blow  dissipated  his  excitement  by  replying  with 
this  simple  phrase,  the  only  one  of  which  he  had  not 
thought  in  his  frenzy: 

''Monsieur  is  not  at  home." 
[163] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"He  will  be  at  home  to  me,"  replied  Boleslas.  "I 
have  an  appointment  with  Madame  and  Mademoiselle 
Steno,  who  are  awaiting  me." 

''Monsieur's  orders  are  strict,"  replied  the  servant. 

Accustomed,  as  are  all  servants  entrusted  with  the 
defence  of  an  artist's  work,  to  a  certain  rigor  of  orders, 
he  yet  hesitated,  in  the  face  of  the  untruth  which 
Gorka  had  invented  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  and  he 
was  about  to  yield  to  his  importunity  when  some  one 
appeared  on  the  staircase  of  the  hall.  That  some  one 
was  none  other  than  Florent  Chapron.  Chance  de- 
creed that  the  latter  should  send  for  a  carriage  in  which 
to  go  to  lunch,  and  that  the  carriage  should  be  late. 
At  the  sound  of  wheels  stopping  at  the  door,  he  looked 
out  of  one  of  the  windows  of  his  apartment,  which 
faced  the  street.  He  saw  Gorka  alight.  Such  a  visit, 
at  such  an  hour,  with  the  persons  who  were  in  the 
atelier,  seemed  to  him  so  dangerous  that  he  ran  down- 
stairs immediately.  He  took  up  his  hat  and  his  cane, 
to  justify  his  presence  in  the  hall  by  the  very  natural 
excuse  that  he  was  going  out.  He  reached  the  middle 
of  the  staircase  just  in  time  to  stop  the  servant,  who 
hafl  decided  to  "go  and  see,"  and,  bowing  to  Boleslas 
with  more  formahty  than  usual: 

"  My  brother-in-law  is  not  there,  Monsieur,"  said  he; 
and  he  added,  turning  to  the  footman,  in  order  to  dispose 
of  him  in  case  an  altercation  should  arise  between  the 
importunate  visitor  and  himself,  "Nero,  fetch  me  a 
handkerchief  from  my  room.     T  liave  forgotten  mine." 

"That  order  could  not  be  meant  for  me,  Monsieur," 
insisted  Boleslas.     "  Monsieur  Maitland  has  made  an 

[164  J 


COSMOPOLIS 

appointment  with  me,  with  Madame  Steno,  in  order 
to  show  us  Alba's  portrait." 

"It  is  no  order,"  replied  Florcnt.  "I  repeat  to  you 
that  my  brother-in-law  has  gone  out.  The  studio  is 
closed,  and  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  undertake  to 
open  it  to  show  you  the  picture,  since  I  have  not  the 
key.  As  for  Madame  and  Mademoiselle  Steno,  they 
have  not  been  here  for  several  days;  the  sittings  have 
been  interrupted." 

"What  is  still  more  extraordinary.  Monsieur, "  replied 
the  other,  "is  that  I  saw  them  with  my  own  eyes,  five 
minutes  ago,  enter  this  house  and  I,  too,  saw  their 
carriage  drive  away."  ...  He  felt  his  anger  increase 
and  direct  itself  altogether  against  the  watch-dog  so 
suddenly  raised  upon  the  threshold  of  his  rival's  house. 

Florent,  on  his  part,  had  begun  to  lose  patience. 
He  had  within  him  the  violent  irritability  of  the  negro 
blood,  which  he  did  not  acknowledge,  but  which 
slightly  tinted  his  complexion.  The  manner  of  Madame 
Steno's  former  lover  seemed  to  him  so  outrageous  that 
he  replied  very  dryly,  as  he  opened  the  door,  in  order 
to  oblige  the  caller  to  leave: 

"You  are  mistaken,  Monsieur,  that  is  all." 

"You  are  aware,  Monsieur, "  replied  Boleslas,  "of  the 
fact  that  you  just  addressed  me  in  a  tone  which  is  not 
the  one  which  I  have  a  right  to  expect  from  you.  .  .  . 
When  one  charges  one's  self  with  a  certain  business,  it 
is  at  least  necessary  to  introduce  a  little  form." 

"And  I,  Monsieur,"  replied  Chapron,  "would  be 
very  much  obliged  to  you  if,  when  you  address  me,  you 
would  not  do  so  in  enigmas.     I  do  not  know  what  you 

[165] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

mean  by  'a  certain  business,'  but  I  know  that  it  is 
unbefitting  a  gentleman  to  act  as  you  have  acted  at  the 
door  of  a  house  which  is  not  yours  and  for  reasons 
that  I  can  not  comprehend." 

"You  will  comprehend  them  very  soon,  Monsieur," 
said  Boleslas,  beside  himself,  ''and  you  have  not  consti- 
tuted yourself  your  brother's  slave  without  motives." 

He  had  no  sooner  uttered  that  sentence  than  Florent, 
incapable  any  longer  of  controlling  himself,  raised  his 
cane  with  a  menacing  gesture,  which  the  Polish  Count 
arrested  just  in  time,  by  seizing  it  in  his  right  hand. 
It  was  the  work  of  a  second,  and  the  two  men  were 
again  face  to  face,  both  pale  with  anger,  ready  to 
collar  one  another  rudely,  when  the  sound  of  a  door 
closing  above  their  heads  recalled  to  them  their  dig- 
nity. The  servant  descended  the  stairs.  It  was  Chap- 
ron  who  first  regained  his  self-possession,  and  he  said 
to  Boleslas,  in  a  voice  too  low  to  be  heard  by  any  one 
but  him: 

"No  scandal,  Monsieur,  eh?  I  shall  have  the  honor 
of  sending  two  of  my  friends  to  you." 

"It  is  I,  Monsieur, "  replied  Gorka,  "who  will  send 
you  two.  You  shall  answer  to  me  for  your  manner,  I 
assure  you." 

"Ha!  Whatsoever  you  like,"  said  the  other.  "I 
accept  all  your  conditions  in  advance.  .  .  .  But  one 
thing  I  ask  of  you,"  he  added,  "that  no  names  be 
mentioned.  There  would  be  too  many  persons  in- 
volved. Let  it  appear  that  we  had  an  argument  on 
the  street,  that  we  disagreed,  and  that  I  threatened 
you." 

[.CO] 


COSMOPOLIS 

"So  be  it,"  said  Boleslas,  after  a  pause.  "You 
have  my  word.  There  is  a  man,"  said  he  to  himself 
five  minutes  later,  when  again  rolling  through  the 
streets  in  his  cab,  after  giving  the  cabman  the  address 
of  the  Palais  Castagna.  "Yes,  there  is  a  man.  .  .  . 
He  was  very  insolent  just  now,  and  I  lacked  compos- 
ure. I  am  too  nervous.  I  should  be  sorry  to  injure 
the  boy.  But,  patience,  the  other  will  lose  nothing 
by  waiting." 


[167] 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  INCONSISTENCY  OF   AN  OLD  CHOUAN 

HILE  the  madman,  Boleslas,  hastened 
to  Ardea  to  ask  his  cooperation  in 
the  most  unreasonable  of  encounters, 
with  a  species  of  savage  dehght, 
Florent  Chapron  was  possessed  by 
only  one  thought:  at  any  price  to 
prevent  his  brother-in-law  from  sus- 
pecting his  quarrel  with  Madame 
Steno's  former  lover  and  the  duel  which  was  to  be  the 
result.  His  passionate  friendship  for  Lincoln  was  so 
strong  that  it  prevented  the  nervousness  which  usually 
precedes  a  first  duel,  above  all  when  he  who  appears 
upon  the  ground  has  all  his  life  neglected  practising 
with  the  sword  or  pistol.  To  a  fencer,  and  to  one 
accustomed  to  the  use  of  firearms,  a  duel  means  a 
number  of  details  which  remove  the  thought  of  dan- 
ger. The  man  conceives  the  possil)ilities  of  the  strug- 
gle, of  a  deed  to  be  bravely  accom{)lished.  That  is 
sufiicient  to  inspire  him  with  a  composure  which 
absolute  ignorance  can  nol  inspire,  unless  it  is  sup- 
ported l)y  one  of  those  deep  attachments  often  so 
strong  within  us.  Such  was  the  case  with  Florent. 
Dor.senne's  instinct,  which  could  so  easily  read  the 
heart,  was  not  mistaken  there;   the  painter  had  in  his 

[i68] 


COSMOPOLIS 

wife's  brother  a  friend  of  self-sacrificing  devotion.  He 
could  exact  anything  of  the  Mameluke,  or,  rather,  of 
that  slave,  for  it  was  the  blood  of  the  slaves,  of  his 
ancestors,  which  manifested  itself  in  Chapron  by  so 
total  an  absorption  of  his  personality.  The  atavism 
of  servitude  has  these  two  effects  which  are  apparently 
contradictory:  it  produces  fathomless  capacities  of 
sacrifice  or  of  perfidy.  Both  of  these  qualities  were 
embodied  in  the  brother  and  in  the  sister.  As  happens, 
sometimes,  the  two  characteristics  of  their  race  were 
divided  between  them ;  one  had  inherited  all  the  virtue 
of  self-sacrifice,  the  other  all  the  puissance  of  hypocrisy. 

But  the  drama  called  forth  by  IMadame  Steno's 
infidelity,  and  finally  by  Gorka's  rashness,  would  only 
expose  to  light  the  moral  conditions  which  Dorsenne 
had  foreseen  without  comprehending.  He  was  com- 
pletely ignorant  of  the  circumstances  under  which 
Florent  had  developed,  of  those  under  which  Maitland 
and  he  had  met,  of  how  Maitland  had  decided  to 
marry  Lydia;  finally  an  exceptional  and  lengthy  his- 
tory which  it  is  necessary  to  sketch  here  at  least,  in 
order  to  render  clear  the  singular  relations  of  those 
three  beings. 

As  we  have  seen,  the  allusion  coarsely  made  by 
Boleslas  to  negro  blood  marked  the  moment  when 
Florent  lost  all  self-control,  to  the  point  even  of  raising 
his  cane  to  his  insolent  interlocutor.  That  blemish, 
hidden  with  the  most  jealous  care,  represented  to  the 
young  man  what  it  had  represented  to  his  father,  the 
vital  point  of  self-love,  secret  and  constant  humiliation. 
It  was  very  faint,   the  trace  of  negro  blood   which 

[169] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

flowed  in  their  veins,  so  faint  that  it  was  necessary  to 

be  told  of  it,  but  it  was  sufficient  to  render  a  stay  in 

America  so  much  the  more  intolerable  to  both,  as  they 

had   inhenited  all  the  pride  of  their  name,   a  name 

which  the  Emperor  mentioned  at  St.  Helena  as  that 

of  one  of  his  bravest  officers.     Florent's  grandfather 

was  no  other,  indeed,  than  the  Colonel  Chapron  who, 

as  Napoleon  desired  information,  swam  the  Dnieper 

on  horseback,  followed  a  Cossack  on  the  opposite  shore, 

hunted  him  like  a  stag,  laid  him  across  his  saddle  and 

took  him  back  to  the  French  camp.     When  the  Empire 

fell,  that  hero,  who  had  compromised  himself  in  an 

irreparable  manner  in  the  army  of  the  Loire,  left  his 

country  and,   accompanied   by  a  handful  of  his  old 

comrades,   went    to   found    in   the   southern    part   of 

the  United  States,  in  Alabama,  a  sort  of  agricultural 

colony,  to  which  they  gave  the  name — which  it  still 

preserves-  of  Areola,  a  naive  and. melancholy  tribute 

to  the  fabulous  epoch  which,  however,  had  been  dear 

to  them. 

Who  would  have  recognized  the  brilliant  colonel, 
who  penetrated  by  the  side  of  Montbrun  the  heart  of 
the  Grande  Redoute,  in  the  planter  of  forty-five,  busy 
with  his  cotton  and  his  sugar-cane,  who  made  a  fortune 
in  a  short  time  by  dint  of  energy  and  good  sense? 
His  success,  told  of  in  France,  was  the  indirect  cause 
of  another  emigration  to  Texas,  led  by  General  Lalle- 
mand,  and  which  terminated  so  disastrously.  Colonel 
Chapron  had  not,  as  can  ])e  believed,  acquired  in  roam- 
ing througli  EurojH'  very  scmpulous  notions  on  the 
relations  of  the  two  sexes.     Ha\ing  made  the  mother  of 

[170] 


COSMOPOLIS 

his  child  a  pretty  and  sweet-tempered  mulattrcss  whom 
he  met  on  a  short  trip  to  New  Orleans,  and  whom  he 
brought  back  to  Areola,  he  became  deeply  attached 
to  the  charming  creature  and  to  his  son,  so  much  the 
more  so  as,  with  a  simple  difference  of  complexion 
and  of  hair,  the  child  was  the  image  of  him.  Indeed, 
the  old  warrior,  who  had  no  relatives  in  his  native  land, 
on  dying,  left  his  entire  fortune  to  that  son,  whom  he 
had  christened  Napoleon.  While  he  lived,  not  one  of 
his  neighbors  dared  to  treat  the  young  man  differently 
from  the  way  in  which  his  father  treated  him. 

But  it  was  not  the  same  when  the  prestige  of  the 
Emperor's  soldier  was  not  there  to  protect  the  boy 
against  that  aversion  to  race  which  is  morally  a  pre- 
judice, but  socially  interprets  an  instinct  of  preser- 
vation of  infallible  surety.  The  United  States  has 
grown  only  on  that  condition.  The  mixture  of  blood 
would  there  have  dissolved  the  admirable  Anglo-Saxon 
energy  which  the  struggle  against  a  nature  at  once  very 
rich  and  very  mutinous  has  exalted  to  such  surprising 
splendor.  It  is  not  necessary  to  ask  those  who  are 
the  victims  of  such  an  instinct  to  comprehend  the  legal 
injustice.  They  only  feel  its  ferocity.  Napoleon 
Chapron,  rejected  in  several  offers  of  marriage,  thwarted 
in  his  plans,  humiliated  under  twenty  trifling  circum- 
stances by  the  Colonel's  former  companions,  became 
a  species  of  misanthrope.  He  lived,  sustained  by  a 
twofold  desire,  on  the  one  hand  to  increase  his  fortune, 
and  on  the  other  to  wed  a  white  woman.  It  was  not 
until  1857,  at  the  age  of  thirty-five,  that  he  realized  the 
second  of  his  two  projects.     In  the  course  of  a  trip  to 

[171] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

Europe,  he  became  interested  on  the  steamer  in  a 
young  English  governess,  who  was  returning  from 
Canada,  summoned  home  by  family  troubles.  He  met 
her  again  in  London.  He  helped  her  with  such  deli- 
cacy in  her  distress,  that  he  won  her  heart,  and  she 
consented  to  become  his  wife.  From  that  union  were 
bom,  one  year  apart,  Florcnt  and  Lydia. 

Lydia  had  cost  her  mother  her  life,  at  the  moment 
when  the  War  of  Secession  jeoparded  the  fortune  of 
Chapron,  who,  fortunately  for  him,  had,  in  his  desire  to 
enrich  himself  quickly,  invested  his  money  a  little  on 
all  sides.  He  was  only  partly  ruined,  but  that  semi- 
ruin  prevented  him  from  returning  to  Europe,  as  he 
had  intended.  He  was  compelled  to  remain  in  Ala- 
bama to  repair  that  disaster,  and  he  succeeded,  for  at 
his  death,  in  1880,  his  children  inherited  more  than  four 
hundred  thousand  dollars  each.  The  incomparable 
father's  devotion  had  not  limited  itself  to  the  building 
up  of  a  large  fortune.  He  had  the  courage  to  deprive 
himself  of  the  presence  of  the  two  beings  whom  he 
adored,  to  spare  them  the  humiliation  of  an  American 
school,  and  he  sent  them  after  their  twelfth  year  to 
England,  the  boy  to  the  Jesuits  of  Beaumont,  the  girl 
to  the  convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  at  Roehampton. 
After  four  years  there,  he  sent  them  to  Paris,  Florent 
to  Vaugirard,  Lydia  to  the  Rue  de  Varenne,  and  just  at 
the  time  that  Ik-  had  realized  the  amount  he  considered 
refjuisite,  when  he  was  preparing  to  return  to  live  near 
them  in  a  country  without  ])rejudices,  a  stroke  of 
apoplexy  took  him  olT  suddenly.  The  double  wear 
of  toil  and  rare  had  told  upon  one  of  those  organisms 

[172I 


COSMOPOLIS 

which  the  mixture  of  the  black  and  white  races  often 
produces,  athletic  in  appearance,  but  of  a  very  keen 
sensibility,  in  which  the  vital  resistance  is  not  in  pro- 
portion to  the  muscular  vigor. 

Whatever  care  the  man,  so  deeply  grieved  by  the 
blemish  upon  his  birth,  had  taken  to  preserve  his 
children  from  a  similar  experience,  he  had  not  been 
able  to  do  so,  and  soon  after  his  son  entered  Beau- 
mont his  trials  began.  The  few  boys  with  whom 
Florent  was  thrown  in  contact,  in  the  hotels  or  in  his 
walks,  during  his  sojourn  in  America,  had  already 
made  him  feel  that  humiliation  from  which  his  father 
had  suffered  so  much.  The  youth  of  twelve,  silent 
and  absurdly  sensitive,  who  made  his  appearance  on 
the  lawn  of  the  peaceful  English  college  on  an  autumn 
morning,  brought  with  him  a  self-love  already  bleed- 
ing, to  whom  it  was  a  delightful  surprise  to  find  him- 
self among  comrades  of  his  age  who  did  not  even 
seem  to  suspect  that  any  difference  separated  them 
from  him.  It  required  the  perception  of  a  Yankee  to 
discern,  beneath  the  nails  of  the  handsome  boy  with 
the  dark  complexion,  the  tiny  drops  of  negro  blood, 
so  far  removed.  Between  an  octoroon  and  a  Creole 
a  European  can  never  tell  the  difference.  Florent  had 
been  represented  as  what  he  really  was,  the  grandson 
of  one  of  the  Emperor's  best  officers.  His  father  had 
taken  particular  pains  to  designate  him  as  French, 
and  his  companions  only  saw  in  him  a  pupil  like 
themselves,  coming  from  Alabama- — that  is  to  say, 
from  a  country  almost  as  chimerical  as  Japan  or  China. 

All  who  in  early  youth  have  known  the  torture 
[173] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

of  apprehension  will  be  able  to  judge  of  the  poor 
child's  agony  when,  after  four  months  of  a  life  amid 
the  warmth  of  sympathy,  one  of  the  Jesuit  fathers 
who  directed  the  college  announced  to  him,  thinking 
it  would  afTord  him  pleasure,  the  expected  arrival  of 
an  American,  of  young  Lincoln  Maitland.  This  was  to 
Florent  so  violent  a  shock  that  he  had  a  fever  for  forty- 
eight  hours.  In  after  years  he  could  remember  what 
thoughts  possessed  him  on  the  day  when  he  descended 
from  his  room  to  the  common  refectory,  sure  that  as 
soon  as  he  was  brought  face  to  face  with  the  new 
pupil  he  would  have  to  sustain  the  disdainful  glance 
suffered  so  frequently  in  the  United  States.  There 
was  no  doubt  in  his  mind  that,  his  origin  once  dis- 
covered, the  atmosphere  of  kindness  in  which  he 
moved  with  so  much  surprise  would  soon  be  changed 
to  hostility.  He  could  again  see  himself  crossing  the 
yard;  could  hear  himself  called  by  Father  Roberts — 
the  master  w^ho  had  told  him  of  the  expected  new 
arrival — and  his  surprise  when  Lincoln  Maitland  had 
given  him  the  hearty  handshake  of  one  dcmi-com- 
patriot  who  meets  another.  He  was  to  learn  later  that 
that  reception  was  quite  natural,  coming  from  the  son 
of  an  Englishman,  educated  altogether  by  his  mother, 
and  taken  from  New  York  to  Europe  before  his  fifth 
year,  there  to  live  in  a  circle  as  little  American  as  pos- 
sible, rhnpron  did  not  reason  in  that  manner.  He 
had  an  infmitcly  tender  heart.  (Gratitude  entered  it 
— gratitude  as  impassioned  as  had  been  his  fear.  One 
week  lalcr  LiiKoln  Maitland  and  he  were  friends,  and 
frienrls  so  intimate  that  Ibey  never  jiarted. 

L'74] 


COSMOPOLIS 

The  affection,  which  was  merely  to  the  indifferent 
nature  of  Maitland  a  simple  college  episode,  became 
to  Florent  the  most  serious,  most  complete  sentiment 
of  his  life.  Those  fraternities  of  election,  the  loveliest 
and  most  delicate  of  the  heart  of  man,  usually  dawn 
thus  in  youth.  It  is  the  ideal  age  of  passionate  friend- 
ship, that  period  between  ten  and  sixteen,  when  the 
spirit  is  so  pure,  so  fresh,  still  so  virtuous,  so  fertile  in 
generous  projects  for  the  future.  One  dreams  of  a 
companionship  almost  mystical  with  the  friend  from 
whom  one  has  no  secret,  whose  character  one  sees  in 
such  a  noble  light,  on  whose  esteem  one  depends  as 
upon  the  surest  recompense,  whom  one  innocently 
desires  to  resemble.  Indeed,  they  are,  between  the 
innocent  lads  who  work  side  by  side  on  a  problem  of 
geometry  or  a  lesson  in  history,  veritable  poems  of 
tenderness  at  which  the  man  will  smile  later,  find- 
ing so  far  different  from  him  in  all  his  tastes,  him 
whom  he  desired  to  have  for  a  brother.  It  happens, 
however,  in  certain  natures  of  a  sensibility  particularly 
precocious  and  faithful  at  the  same  time,  that  the 
awakening  of  effective  life  is  so  strong,  so  encroaching, 
that  the  impassioned  friendship  persists,  first  through 
the  other  awakening,  that  of  sensuality,  so  fatal  to  all 
the  senses  of  delicacy,  then  through  the  first  tumult  of 
social  experience,  not  less  fatal  to  our  ideal  of  youth. 

That  was  the  case  with  Florent  Chapron,  whether 
his  character,  at  once  somewhat  wild  and  yet  sub- 
missive, rendered  him  more  qualified  for  that  renun- 
ciation of  his  personality  than  friendship  demands, 
whether,  far  from  his  father  and  his  sister  and  not 

[175] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

having  any  mother,  his  loving  heart  had  need  of  attach- 
ing itself  to  some  one  who  could  fill  the  place  of  his 
relatives,  or  whether  Maitland  exercised  over  him  a 
special  prestige  by  his  opposite  qualities.  Fragile  and 
somewhat  delicate,  was  he  seduced  by  the  strength 
and  dexterity  which  his  friend  exhibited  in  all  his 
exercises?  Timid  and  naturally  taciturn,  was  he 
governed  by  the  assurance  of  that  athlete  with  the 
loud  laugh,  with  the  invincible  energy?  Did  the  sur- 
prising tendency  toward  art  which  the  other  one  showed 
conquer  him,  as  well  as  sympathy  for  the  misfor- 
tunes which  were  confided  to  him  and  which  touched 
him  more  than  they  touched  him  who  experienced 
them? 

Gordon  Maitland,  Lincoln's  father,  of  an  excel- 
lent family  of  New  York,  had  been  killed  at  the 
battle  of  Chancellorsvillc,  during  the  same  war  which 
had  ruined  Florent's  father  in  part.  Mrs.  Maitland, 
the  poor  daughter  of  a  small  rector  of  a  Presbyterian 
church  at  Newport,  and  who  had  only  married  her 
husband  for  his  money,  had  but  one  idea,  when  once  a 
widow— to  go  abroad.  Whither?  To  Europe,  vague 
and  fascinating  spot,  where  she  fancied  she  would  be 
distinguished  by  her  intelligence  and  her  beauty.  She 
was  pretty,  vain  and  silly,  and  that  voyage  in  pursuit 
of  a  part  to  play  in  the  Old  World  caused  her  to  pass 
two  years  first  in  one  hotel  and  then  in  another,  after 
which  she  married  the  second  son  of  a  poor  Irish  peer, 
with  the  new  chimera  of  entering  that  Olympus  of 
British  aristocracy  of  which  she  had  dreamed  so  much. 
She  became  a  Catholic,  and  her  son  with  her,  to  obtain 

[■7M 


COSMOPOLIS 

the  result  which  cost  her  dear,  for  not  only  was  the 
lord  who  had  given  her  his  name  brutal,  a  drunkard 
and  cruel,  but  he  added  to  all  those  faults  that  of 
being  one  of  the  greatest  gamblers  in  the  entire  United 
Kingdom.  He  kept  his  stepson  away  from  home, 
beat  his  wife,  and  died  toward  1880,  after  dissipating 
the  poor  creature's  fortune  and  almost  all  of  Lincoln's. 
At  that  time  the  latter,  whom  his  stepfather  had  nat- 
urally left  to  develop  in  his  own  way,  and  who,  since 
leaving  Beaumont,  had  studied  painting  at  Venice, 
Rome  and  Paris,  was  in  the  latter  city  and  one  of  the 
first  pupils  in  Bonnat's  studio.  Seeing  his  mother 
ruined,  without  resources  at  forty-four  years  of  age,  per- 
suaded himself  of  his  glorious  future,  he  had  one  of 
those  magnificent  impulses  such  as  one  has  in  youth  and 
which  prove  much  less  the  generosity  than  the  pride 
of  life.  Of  the  fifteen  thousand  francs  of  income  re- 
maining to  him,  he  gave  up  to  his  mother  twelve  thou- 
sand five  hundred.  It  is  expedient  to  add  that  in  less 
than  a  year  afterward  he  married  the  sister  of  his 
college  friend  and  four  hundred  thousand  dollars. 
He  had  seen  poverty  and  he  was  afraid  of  it.  His 
action  with  regard  to  his  mother  seemed  to  justify  in 
his  own  eyes  the  purely  interested  character  of  the 
combination  which  freed  his  brush  forever.  There 
are,  moreover,  such  artistic  consciences.  Maitland 
would  not  have  pardoned  himself  a  concession  of  art. 
He  considered  rascals  the  painters  who  begged  success 
by  compromise  in  their  style,  and  he  thought  it  quite 
natural  to  take  the  money  of  Mademoiselle  Chapron, 
whom  he  did  not  love,  and  for  whom,  now  that  he 
12  [177] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

had  groA\  n  to  manhood  and  knew  several  of  her  com- 
patriots, he  Hkewise  felt  the  prejudice  of  race.  ''The 
glory  of  the  colonel  of  the  Empire  and  friendship  for 
that  good  Florcnt,"  as  he  said,  "covered  all." 

Poor  and  good  Florent!  That  marriage  was  to  him 
the  romance  of  his  youth  realized.  He  had  desired  it 
since  the  first  week  that  Maitland  had  given  him  the 
cordial  handshake  which  had  bound  them.  To  live 
in  the  shadow  of  his  friend,  become  at  once  his  brother- 
in-law  and  his  ideal^he  did  not  dream  of  any  other 
solution  of  his  own  destiny.  The  faults  of  Maitland, 
developed  by  age,  fortune,  and  success — we  recall  the 
triumph  of  his  Femme  en  violet  et  en  jaune  in  the  Salon 
of  1884 — found  Plorcnt  as  blind  as  at  the  epoch  when 
they  played  cricket  together  in  the  fields  at  Beaumont. 
Dorsenne  very  justly  diagnosed  there  one  of  those 
hypnotisms  of  admiration  such  as  artists,  great  or 
small,  often  inspire  around  them.  But  the  author, 
who  always  generalized  too  quickly,  had  not  com- 
prehended that  the  admirer  with  Florent  was  grafted 
on  a  friend  worthy  to  be  painted  by  La  Fontaine  or  by 
Balzac,  the  two  poets  of  friendship,  the  one  in  his  sub- 
lime and  tragic  Cousin  Pons,  the  other  in  that  short 
but  fine  fable,  in  which  is  this  verse,  one  of  the  most 
tender  in  the  Frcncli  language: 

Vans  nicies,  ni  dornunU,  mi  pen  tristc  a fyparu. 

Florent  did  not  love  Lincohi  because  he  admired 
him;  he  ;ulinir((l  him  because  he  loved  him.  He 
was  not  wrong  in  considering  the  painter  as  one  of  the 
most  gifted  who  had  ap]ioarrd  for  thirty  years.     But 


COSMOPOLIS 

Lincoln  would  have  had  neither  the  bold  elegance  of 
his  drawing,  nor  the  vivid  strength  of  coloring,  nor  the 
ingenious  finesse  of  imagination  if  the  other  had  lent 
himself  with  less  ardor  to  the  service  of  the  work  and 
to  the  glory  of  the  artist.  When  Lincoln  wanted  to 
travel  he  found  his  brother-in-law  the  most  diligent  of 
couriers.  When  he  had  need  of  a  model  he  had  only 
to  say  a  word  for  Florent  to  set  about  finding  one. 
Did  Lincoln  exhibit  at  Paris  or  London,  Florent  took 
charge  of  the  entire  proceeding — seeing  the  journalists 
and  picture  dealers,  composing  letters  of  thanks  for 
the  articles,  in  a  handwriting  so  like  that  of  the  painter 
that  the  latter  had  only  to  sign  it.  Lincoln  desired  to 
return  to  Rome.  Florent  had  discovered  the  house 
on  the  Rue  Leopardi,  and  he  settled  it  even  before  Mait- 
land,  then  in  Egypt,  had  finished  a  large  study  be- 
gun at  the  moment  of  the  departure  of  the  other. 

Florent  had,  by  virtue  of  the  affection  felt  for  his 
brother-in-law,  come  to  comprehend  the  paintings  as 
well  as  the  painter  himself.  These  words  will  be  clear 
to  those  who  have  been  around  artists  and  who  know 
what  a  distance  separates  them  from  the  most  en- 
lightened amateur.  The  amateur  can  judge  and  feel. 
The  artist  only,  who  has  wielded  the  implements, 
knows,  before  a  painting,  how  it  is  done,  what  stroke 
of  the  brush  has  been  given,  and  why;  in  short,  the 
trituration  of  the  matter  by  the  workman.  Florent 
had  watched  Maidand  work  so  much,  he  had  rendered 
him  so  many  effective  little  services  in  the  studio,  that 
each  of  his  brother-in-law's  canvases  became  animated 
to  him,  even  to  the  slightest  details.     When  he  saw 

[179] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

them  on  the  wall  of  the  gallery  they  told  him  of  an 
intimacy  which  was  at  once  his  greatest  joy  and  his 
greatest  pride.  In  short,  the  absorption  of  his  per- 
sonality in  that  of  his  former  comrade  was  so  complete 
that  it  had  led  to  this  anomaly,  that  Dorsenne  him- 
self, notwithstanding  his  indulgence  for  psychological 
singularities,  had  not  been  able  to  prevent  himself 
from  finding  almost  monstrous:  Florent  was  Lincoln's 
brother-in-law,  and  he  seemed  to  find  it  perfectly  nat- 
ural that  the  latter  should  have  adventures  outside,  if 
the  emotion  of  those  adventures  could  be  useful  to 
his  talent ! 

Perhaps  this  long  and  yet  incomplete  analysis  will 
permit  us  the  better  to  comprehend  what  emotions 
agitated  the  young  man  as  he  reascended  the  staircase 
of  his  house — of  their  house,  Lincoln's  and  his — after 
his  unexpected  dispute  with  Boleslas  Gorka.  It  will 
attenuate,  at  least  with  respect  to  him,  the  severity  of 
simple  minds.  All  passion,  when  developed  in  the 
heart,  has  the  effect  of  etiolating  around  it  the  vigor 
of  other  instincts.  Chapron  was  too  fanatical  a  friend 
to  be  a  very  equitable  brother.  It  seemed  to  him  very 
simple  and  very  legitimate  that  his  sister  should  be  at 
the  service  of  the  genius  of  Lincoln,  as  he  himself  was. 
Moreover,  if,  since  the  marriage  with  her  brother's 
friend,  his  sister  had  been  stirred  by  the  tempest  of  a 
moral  tragedy,  Florent  did  not  suspect  it.  When  had 
he  studied  Lydia,  the  silent,  reserved  Lydia,  of  whom 
he  had  once  for  all  formed  an  opinion,  as  is  the  almost 
invariable  custom  of  relative  with  relative?  Those 
who  have  seen  us  when  young  arc  like  tho.se  who  see 

[i8o] 


COSMOPOLIS 

us  daily.  The  images  which  they  trace  of  us  always 
reproduce  what  we  were  at  a  certain  moment — scarcely 
ever  what  we  are.  Florent  considered  his  sister  very 
good,  because  he  had  formerly  found  her  so;  very 
gentle,  because  she  had  never  resisted  him;  not  intel- 
ligent, because  she  did  not  seem  sufficiently  interested 
in  the  painter's  work;  as  for  the  suffering  and  secret 
rebellion  of  the  oppressed  creature,  crushed  between 
his  blind  partiality  and  the  selfishness  of  a  scornful 
husband,  he  did  not  even  suspect  them,  much  less  the 
terrible  resolution  of  w^hich  that  apparent  resignation 
was  capable. 

If  he  had  trembled  when  Madame  Steno  began  to 
interest  herself  in  Lincoln,  it  was  solely  for  the  work 
of  the  latter,  so  much  the  more  as  for  a  year  he  had 
perceived  not  a  decline  but  a  disturbance  in  the  paint- 
ing of  that  artist,  too  voluntary  not  to  be  unequal. 
Then  Florent  had  seen,  on  the  other  hand,  the  nerve 
of  Maitland  reawakened  in  the  warmth  of  that  little 
intrigue. 

The  portrait  of  Alba  promised  to  be  a  magnificent 
.study,  worthy  of  being  placed  beside  the  famous  Femme 
en  violet  et  en  jaune,  which  those  envious  of  Lincoln 
always  remembered.  Moreover,  the  painter  had  fin- 
ished with  unparalleled  ardor  two  large  compositions 
partly  abandoned.  In  the  face  of  that  proof  of  a  fever 
of  production  more  and  more  active,  how  would  not 
Florent  have  blessed  Madame  Stcno,  instead  of  cursing 
her,  so  much  the  more  that  it  sufficed  him  to  close 
his  eyes  and  to  know  that  his  conscience  was  in  repose 
when  opposite  his  sister  ?    He  knew  all,  however.     The 

[i8i] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

proof  of  it  was  in  his  shudder  when  Dorsenne  an- 
nounced to  him  the  clandestine  arrival  in  Rome  of 
Madame  Steno's  other  lover,  and  one  proof  still  more 
certain,  the  impulse  which  had  precipitated  him  upon 
Boleslas,  who  was  parleying  with  the  servant,  and 
now  it  was  he  who  had  accepted  the  duel  which  an 
exasperated  rival  had  certainly  come  to  propose  to  his 
dear  Lincoln,  and  he  thought  only  of  the  latter. 

"He  must  know^  nothing  until  aftervvard.  He  would 
take  the  affair  upon  himself,  and  I  have  a  chance  to 
kill  him,  that  Gorka — to  wound  him,  at  least.  In  any 
case,  I  will  arrange  it  so  that  a  second  duel  will  be 
rendered  difficult  to  that  lunatic.  .  .  .  But,  first  of 
all,  let  us  make  sure  that  we  have  not  spoken  too  loudly 
and  that  they  have  not  heard  upstairs  the  ill-bred 
fellow's  loud  voice." 

It  was  in  such  terms  that  he  qualified  his  adversary 
of  the  morrow.  For  very  little  more  he  would  have 
judged  Gorka  unpardonable  not  to  thank  Lincoln, 
who  had  done  him  the  honor  to  supplant  him  in  the 
Countess's  favor! 

In  the  meantime,  let  us  cast  a  glance  at  the  atelier! 
When  the  friend,  devoted  to  complicity,  but  also  to 
heroism,  entered  the  vast  room,  he  could  see  at  the 
first  glance  tliat  he  liad  been  mistaken  and  that  no 
sound  of  voices  had  readied  that  peaceful  retreat. 

Lhe  atelier  of  the  American  painter  was  furnished 
with  a  harmonious  sumj)tuousness  which  real  artists 
know  how  to  gather  around  lliem.  Lhe  large  strip 
of  .sky  .seen  through  the  windows  looked  down  upon  a 
corner  veritably  Roman-    of  the  Rome  of  to-day,  which 

[  TeS.  J 


COSMOPOLIS 

attests  an  uninterrupted  effort  toward  forming  a  new 
city  by  the  side  of  the  old  one.  One  could  see  an 
angle  of  the  old  garden  and  the  fragment  of  an  antique 
building,  with  a  church  steeple  beyond.  It  was  on 
a  background  of  azure,  of  verdure  and  of  ruins,  in  a 
horizon  larger  and  more  distant,  but  composed  of  the 
same  elements,  that  was  to  arise  the  face  of  the  young 
girl,  designed  after  the  manner,  so  sharp  and  so  mod- 
elled, of  the  Pier  della  Francesca,  with  whom  Mait- 
land  had  been  preoccupied  for  six  months. 

All  great  composers,  of  an  originality  more  com- 
posite than  genitive,  have  these  infatuations. 

Maitland  was  at  his  easel,  dressed  with  that  correct 
elegance  which  is  the  almost  certain  mark  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  artists.  With  his  little  varnished  shoes,  his  fine 
black  socks,  spotted  with  red,  his  coat  of  quilted  silk, 
his  light  cravat  and  the  purity  of  his  linen,  he  had  the 
air  of  a  gentleman  who  applied  himself  to  an  amateur 
effort,  and  not  of  the  patient  and  laborious  worker  he 
really  was.  But  his  canvases  and  his  studies,  hung  on 
all  sides,  among  tapestries,  arms  and  trinkets,  bespoke 
patient  labor.  It  was  the  history  of  an  energy  bent 
upon  the  acquisition  of  a  personality  constantly  fleeting. 
Maitland  manifested  in  a  supreme  degree  the  trait 
common  to  almost  all  his  compatriots,  even  those  who 
came  in  early  youth  to  Europe,  that  intense  desire  not 
to  lack  civilization,  which  is  explained  by  the  fact  that 
the  American  is  a  being  entirely  new,  endowed  with 
an  activity  incomparable,  and  deprived  of  traditional 
saturation.  He  is  not  born  cultivated,  matured,  al- 
ready fashioned  virtually,  if  one  may  say  so,  like  a 

[183] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

child  of  the  Old  World.  He  can  create  himself  at  his 
will.  With  superior  gifts,  but  gifts  entirely  physical, 
Maitland  was  a  self-made  man  of  art,  as  his  grand- 
father had  been  a  self-made  man  of  money,  as  his  father 
had  been  a  self-made  man  of  war.  He  had  in  his  eye 
and  in  his  hand  two  marvellous  implements  for  paint- 
ing, and  in  his  perseverence  in  developing  a  still  more 
marvellous  one.  He  lacked  constantly  the  something 
necessary  and  local  which  gives  to  certain  very  inferior 
painters  the  inexpressible  superiority  of  a  savor  of  soil. 
It  could  not  be  said  that  he  was  not  inventive  and 
new,  yet  one  experienced  on  seeing  no  matter  which 
one  of  his  paintings  that  he  was  a  creature  of  culture 
and  of  acquisition.  The  scattered  studies  in  the  atelier 
first  of  all  displayed  the  influence  of  his  first  master, 
of  solid  and  simple  Bonnat.  Then  he  had  been 
tempted  by  the  English  pre-Raphaelites,  and  a  fine 
copy  of  the  famous  Song  of  Love,  by  Burne- Jones, 
attested  that  reaction  on  the  side  of  an  art  more  sub- 
tle, more  impressed  by  that  poetry  which  professional 
painters  treat  scornfully  as  literary.  But  Lincoln  was 
too  vigorous  for  the  languors  of  such  an  ideal,  and  he 
quickly  turned  to  other  teachings.  Spain  conquered 
him,  and  Velasquez,  the  colorist  of  so  peculiar  a  fancy 
that,  after  a  visit  to  the  Museum  of  the  Prado,  one  car- 
ries away  the  idea  that  one  has  just  seen  the  only 
})ainting  worthy  of  the  name. 

The  spirit  of  the  great  Spaniard,  tliat  despotic  stroke 
of  the  brush  which  seems  to  draw  the  color  in  the 
groundwork  of  the  picture,  to  make  it  stand  out  in 
almost  soh'd  h'ghts,  his  absolute  absence  of  abstract 

[184] 


COSMOPOLIS 

intentions  and  his  newness  which  affects  entirely  to 
ignore  the  past,  all  in  that  formula  of  art,  suited  Mait- 
land's  temperament.  To  him,  too,  he  owed  his  mas- 
terpiece, the  Femme  en  violet  et  en  jaiine,  but  the  restless 
seeker  did  not  adhere  to  that  style.  Italy  and  the 
Florentines  next  influenced  him,  just  those  the  most 
opposed  to  Velasquez;  the  Pollajuoli,  Andrea  del 
Castagna,  Paolo  Uccello  and  Pier  della  Francesca. 
Never  would  one  have  believed  that  the  same  hand 
which  had  wielded  with  so  free  a  brush  the  color  of  the 
Femme  en  violet  could  be  that  which  sketched  the  contour 
of  the  portrait  of  Alba  with  so  severe,  so  rigid  a  drawing. 

At  the  moment  Florent  entered  the  studio  that  work 
so  completely  absorbed  the  attention  of  the  painter 
that  he  did  not  hear  the  door  open  any  more  than  did 
Madame  Steno,  who  was  smoking  cigarettes,  reclining 
indolently  and  blissfully  upon  the  divan,  her  half- 
closed  eyes  fixed  upon  the  man  she  loved.  Lincoln 
only  divined  another  presence  by  a  change  in  Alba's 
face.  God!  How  pale  she  was,  seated  in  the  immo- 
bility of  her  pose  in  a  large,  heraldic  armchair,  with 
a  back  of  carved  wood,  her  hands  grasping  the  arms, 
her  mouth  so  bitter,  her  eyes  so  deep  in  their  fixed 
glance!  .  .  .  Did  she  divine  that  which  she  could  not, 
however,  know,  that  her  fate  was  approaching  with 
the  visitor  who  entered,  and  who,  having  left  the  studio 
fifteen  minutes  before,  had  to  justify  his  return  by  an 
excuse. 

"It  is  I,"  said  he.  "I  forgot  to  ask  you,  Lincoln, 
if  you  wish  to  buy  Ardea's  three  drawings  at  the  price 
they  offer." 

[185] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  of  it  yesterday,  my  little 
Linco?"  interrupted  the  Countess.  *'I  saw  Peppino 
again  this  morning.  ...  I  would  have  from  him  his 
lowest  figure." 

"That  would  only  be  lacking,"  replied  Maitland, 
laughing  his  large  laugh.  "He  does  not  acknowledge 
those  drawings,  dear  dogaresse.  .  .  .  They  are  a  part 
of  the  series  of  trinkets  he  carefully  subtracted  from 
his  creditor's  inventory  and  put  in  different  places. 
There  are  some  at  seven  or  eight  antiquaries',  and  we 
may  expect  that  for  the  next  ten  years  all  the  cockneys 
of  my  country  will  be  allured  by  this  phrase,  'This  is 
from  the  Palais  Castagna.  I  have  it  by  a  little  ar- 
rangement.'" 

His  eyes  sparkled  as  he  imitated  one  of  the  most 
celebrated  bric-a-brac  dealers  in  Rome,  with  the  in- 
comparable art  of  imitation  which  distinguishes  all 
the  old  habitues  of  Parisian  studios. 

"At  present  these  three  drawings  are  at  an  anti- 
quary's of  Babuino,  and  very  authentic." 

"Except  when  they  are  represented  as  Vincis, "  said 
Florent,  "when  Leonardo  was  left-handed,  and  their 
hatchings  are  made  from  left  to  right." 

"And  you  think  Ardea  would  not  agree  with  me  in 
it?"  resumed  the  Countess. 

"Not  even  with  you,"  said  the  painter.  "He  had 
the  assurance  la.st  night,  when  I  mentioned  them  be- 
fore him,  to  ask  me  the  address  in  order  to  go  to  see 
them." 

"How  did  you  learn  their  jmxluction?"  questioned 
Madame  Stcno. 

[.8(.J 


COSMOPOLIS 

"Ask  him,"  said  Maitland,  pointing  to  Chapron 
with  the  end  of  his  brush.  ''When  there  is  a  question 
of  enriching  his  old  Maitland's  collection,  he  becomes 
more  of  a  merchant  than  the  merchants  themselves. 
They  tell  him  all.  .  .  .  Vinci  or  no  Vinci,  it  is  the 
pure  Lombard  style.     Buy  them.     I  want  them." 

"I  will  go,  then,"  replied  Florent.  "Countess.  .  .  . 
Contessina." 

He  bowed  to  Madame  Steno  and  her  daughter. 
The  mother  bestowed  upon  him  her  pleasantest  smile. 
She  was  not  one  of  those  mistresses  to  whom  their 
lovers'  intimate  friends  are  always  enemies.  On  the 
contrary,  she  enveloped  them  in  the  abundant  and 
blissful  sympathy  which  love  awoke  in  her.  Besides, 
she  was  too  cunning  not  to  feel  that  Florent  approved 
of  her  love.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  intense 
aversion  which  Alba  at  that  moment  felt  toward  her 
mother's  suspected  intrigues  was  expressed  by  the  for- 
mality with  which  she  inclined  her  head  in  response 
to  the  farewell  of  the  young  man,  who  was  too  happy 
to  have  found  that  the  dispute  had  not  been  heard. 

"From  now  until  to-morrow,"  thought  he,  on  re- 
descending  the  staircase,  "there  will  be  no  one  to  warn 
Lincoln.  .  .  .  The  purchase  of  the  drawings  was  an 
invention  to  demonstrate  my  tranquillity.  .  .  .  Now  I 
must  find  two  discreet  seconds." 

Florent  was  a  very  deliberate  man,  and  a  man  who 
had  at  his  command  perfect  evenness  of  temperament 
whenever  it  was  not  a  question  of  his  enthusiastic 
attachment  to  his  brother-in-law.  He  had  the  power 
of   observation    habitual   to   persons   whose   sensitive 

[187] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

amour  pro  pre  has  frequently  been  wounded.  He 
therefore  deferred  until  later  his  difficult  choice  and 
went  to  luncheon,  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  at  the 
restaurant  where  he  was  expected.  Certainly  the  pro- 
prietor did  not  mistrust,  in  replying  to  the  questions  of 
his  guest  relative  to  the  most  recent  portraits  of  Len- 
bach,  that  the  young  man,  so  calm,  so  smiling,  had  on 
hand  a  duel  which  might  cost  him  his  life.  It  was 
only  on  leaving  the  restaurant  that  Florent,  after 
mentally  reviewing  ten  of  his  older  acquaintances, 
resolved  to  make  a  first  attempt  upon  Dorsenne.  He 
recalled  the  mysterious  intelligence  given  him  by  the 
novelist,  whose  sympathy  for  Maitland  had  been  pub- 
licly manifested  by  an  eloquent  article.  Moreover,  he 
believed  him  to  be  madly  in  love  with  Alba  Steno. 
That  was  one  probability  more  in  favor  of  his  dis- 
cretion. 

Dorsenne  would  surely  maintain  silence  with  re- 
gard to  a  meeting  in  connection  with  which,  if  it  were 
known,  the  cause  of  the  contest  would  surely  be  men- 
tioned. It  was  only  too  clear  that  Gorka  and  Chapron 
had  no  real  reason  to  quarrel  and  fight  a  duel.  But 
at  ten-thirty,  that  is  to  say,  three  hours  after  the  un- 
reasonable altercation  in  the  vestibule,  Florent  rang 
at  the  door  of  Julien's  apartments.  The  latter  was 
at  home,  busy  upon  the  last  correction  of  the  proofs 
of  Poiissihe  d^Idccs.  His  visitor's  confidence  upset 
him  to  such  a  degree  that  his  hands  trembled  as  he 
arranged  his  .scattered  papers.  He  remembered  the 
presence  of  I'olcslas  on  that  same  couch,  a(  ihc  same 
time  of  the  day,  forty-eight  hours  before.     How  the 

[i88J 


COSMOPOLIS 

drama  would  progress  if  that  madman  went  away  in 
that  mood!  He  knew  only  too  well  that  Maitland's 
brother-in-law  had  not  told  him  all. 

"It  is  absurd,"  he  cried,  "it  is  madness,  it  is  folly! 
.  .  .  You  are  not  going  to  fight  about  an  argument 
such  as  you  have  related  to  me?  You  talked  at  the 
corner  of  the  street,  you  exchanged  a  few  angry  words, 
and  then,  suddenly,  seconds,  a  duel.  .  .  .  Ah,  it  is 
absurd." 

"You  forget  that  I  offered  him  a  violent  insult  in 
raising  my  cane  to  him,"  interrupted  Florent,  "and 
since  he  demands  satisfaction  I  must  give  it  to  him." 

"Do  you  believe,"  said  the  writer,  "that  the  public 
will  be  contented  with  those  reasons?  Do  you  think 
they  will  not  look  for  the  secret  motives  of  the  duel? 
Do  I  know  the  story  of  a  woman?  .  .  .  You  see,  I 
ask  no  questions.  I  rely  upon  what  you  confide  in 
me.  But  the  world  is  the  world,  and  you  will  not 
escape  its  remarks." 

"It  is  precisely  for  that  reason  that  I  ask  absolute 
discretion  of  you,"  repHed  Florent,  "and  for  that 
reason  that  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  serve  me  as  a 
second.  .  .  .  There  is  no  one  in  whom  I  trust  as 
implicitly  as  I  do  in  you.  ...  It  is  the  only  excuse 
for  my  step." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Dorsenne.  He  hesitated  a 
moment.  Then  the  image  of  Alba,  which  had  haunted 
him  since  the  previous  day,  suddenly  presented  itself 
to  his  mind.  He  recalled  the  sombre  anguish  he  had 
surprised  in  the  young  girl's  eyes,  then  her  comforted 
glance  when  her  mother  smiled  at  once  upon  Gorka 

[189] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

and  Maitland.  He  recalled  the  anonymous  letter  and 
the  mysterious  hatred  which  impended  over  Madame 
Steno.  If  the  quarrel  between  Boleslas  and  Florent 
became  known,  there  was  no  doubt  that  it  would  be 
said  generally  that  Florent  was  fighting  for  his  brother- 
in-law  on  account  of  the  Countess.  No  doubt,  too, 
that  the  report  would  reach  the  poor  Contessina.  It 
was  sufficient  to  cause  the  writer  to  reply:  "Very 
well!  I  accept.  I  will  serve  you.  Do  not  thank  me. 
We  are  losing  valuable  time.  You  will  require  an- 
other second.     Of  whom  have  you  thought?" 

"Of  no  one,"  returned  Florent.  "I  confess  I  have 
counted  on  you  to  aid  me." 

"Let  us  make  a  list,"  said  JuHen.  "It  is  the  best 
way,  and  then  cross  off  the  names." 

Dorsenne  wrote  down  a  number  of  their  acquaint- 
ances, and  they  indeed  crossed  them  off,  according  to 
his  expression,  so  effectually  that  after  a  minute  exam- 
ination they  had  rejected  all  of  them.  They  were  then 
as  much  perplexed  as  ever,  when  suddenly  Dorsenne's 
eyes  brightened,  he  uttered  a  slight  exclamation,  and 
said  brusquely: 

"What  an  idea!  But  it  is  an  idea!  .  .  .  Do  you 
know  the  Marquis  de  Montfanon?"  he  asked  Flor- 
ent. 

"He  with  one  arm?"  replied  the  latter.  "I  saw 
him  once  with  reference  to  a  monument  I  put  up  at 
Saint  Louis  des  Fran^ais. " 

"He  told  mv  of  it,"  .said  Dorsenne.  "For  one  of 
your  relatives,  was  it  not?" 

"Oh,  a  distant  cousin,"  r('j)Hed  Florent;  "one 
I  >9o] 


COSMOPOLIS 

Captain  Chapron,  killed  in  'forty-nine  in  the  trenches 
before  Rome." 

"Now,  to  our  business,"  cried  Dorscnne,  rubbing 
his  hands.  "It  is  Montfanon  who  must  be  your 
second.  First  of  all,  he  is  an  experienced  duellist, 
while  I  have  never  been  on  the  ground.  That  is  very 
important.  You  know  the  celebrated  saying:  'It  is 
neither  swords  nor  pistols  which  kill ;  it  is  the  seconds. ' 
.  .  .  And  then  if  the  matter  has  to  be  arranged,  he 
will  have  more  prestige  than  your  servant." 

"It  is  impossible,"  said  Florent;  "Marquis  dc 
Montfanon.  ...  He  will  never  consent.  I  do  not 
exist  for  him." 

"That  is  my  affair, "  cried  Dorsenne.  " Let  me  take 
the  necessary  steps  in  my  own  name,  and  then  if  he 
agrees  you  can  make  it  in  yours.  .  .  .  Only  we  have 
no  time  to  lose.  Do  not  leave  your  house  until  six 
o'clock.  By  that  time  I  shall  know  upon  what  to 
depend." 

If,  at  first,  the  novelist  had  felt  great  confidence  in 
the  issue  of  his  strange  attempt  with  reference  to  his 
old  friend,  that  confidence  changed  to  absolute  appre- 
hension when  he  found  himself,  half  an  hour  later, 
at  the  house  which  Marquis  Claude  Francois  occupied 
in  one  of  the  oldest  parts  of  Rome,  from  which  location 
he  could  obtain  an  admirable  view  of  the  Forum. 
How  many  times  had  Julien  come,  in  the  past  six 
months,  to  that  Marquis  who  dived  constantly  in 
the  sentiment  of  the  past,  to  gaze  upon  the  tragical 
and  grand  panorama  of  the  historical  scene!  At  the 
voice  of  the  recluse,   the  broken  columns  rose,   the 

[191] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

ruined  temples  were  rebuilt,  the  triumphal  view  was 
cleared  from  its  mist.  He  talked,  and  the  formidable 
epopee  of  the  Roman  legend  was  evoked,  interpreted 
by  the  fervent  Christian  in  that  mystical  and  provi- 
dential sense,  which  all,  indeed,  proclaims  in  that 
spot,  where  the  Mamertine  prison  relates  the  trial  of 
St.  Peter,  where  the  portico  of  the  temple  of  Faustine 
serves  as  a  pediment  to  the  Church  of  St.  Laurent, 
where  Ste.-Marie-Liberatrice  rises  upon  the  site  of 
the  Temple  of  Vesta — Sancta  Maria,  libera  nos  a  poenis 
injerni — Montfanon  always  added  when  he  spoke  of 
it,  and  he  pointed  out  the  Arch  of  Titus,  which  tells 
of  the  fulfilment  of  the  prophecies  of  Our  Lord  against 
Jerusalem,  while,  opposite,  the  groves  reveal  the  out- 
lines of  a  nunnery  upon  the  ruins  of  the  dwellings  of 
the  Caesars.  And,  at  the  extreme  end,  the  Coliseum 
recalls  to  mind  the  ninety  thousand  spectators  come 
to  sec  the  martyrs  suffer. 

Such  were  the  sights  where  lived  the  former  pontifi- 
cal zouave,  and,  on  ringing  the  bell  of  the  third  etage, 
Julien  said  to  himself:  "I  am  a  simpleton  to  come  to 
propose  to  such  a  man  what  I  have  to  propose.  Yet 
it  is  not  to  be  a  second  in  an  ordinary  duel,  but 
simply  to  prevent  an  adventure  which  might  cost  the 
lives  of  two  men  in  the  first  place,  then  the  honor  of 
Madame  Stcno,  and,  lastly,  the  peace  of  mind  of 
three  innocent  persons,  Madame  Gorka,  Madame 
Maitland  and  my  little  friend  Alba.  ...  He  alone  has 
sufficient  autliority  to  arrange  all.  It  will  be  an  act 
of  charity,  like  any  other.  ...  I  hope  he  is  at  home," 
he  concluded,  hearing  the  footstep  of  the  servant,  who 

[192] 


COSMOPOLIS 

recognized  the  visitor  and  who  anticipated  all  ques- 
tions. 

"The  Marquis  went  out  this  morning  before  eight 
o'clock.     He  will  not  return  until  dinner-time." 

"Do  you  know  where  he  has  gone?" 

"To  hear  mass  in  a  catacomb,  and  to  be  present 
at  a  procession,"  replied  the  footman,  who  took 
Dorsenne's  card,  adding:  "The  Trappists  of  Saint 
Calixtus  certainly  know  where  the  Marquis  is.  .  .  . 
He  lunched  with  them." 

"We  shall  see,"  said  the  young  man  to  himself, 
somewhat  disappointed.  His  carriage  rolled  in  the 
direction  of  Porte  St.  Sebastien,  near  which  was  the 
catacomb  and  the  humble  dwelling  contiguous  to  it 
— the  last  morsel  of  the  Papal  domains  kept  by  the 
poor  monks.  "Montfanon  will  have  taken  com- 
munion this  morning,"  thought  he,  "and  at  the  very 
word  duel  he  will  listen  to  nothing  more.  However, 
the  matter  must  be  arranged;  it  must  be.  .  .  .  What 
would  I  not  give  to  know  the  truth  of  the  scene  be- 
tween Gorka  and  Florent?  By  what  strange  and 
diabolical  ricochet  did  the  Palatine  hit  upon  the  latter 
when  his  business  was  with  the  brother-in-law?  .  .  . 
Will  he  be  angry  that  I  am  his  adversary's  second? 
.  .  .  Bah!  .  .  .  After  our  conversation  of  the  other 
day  our  friendship  is  ended.  .  .  .  Good,  I  am  already 
at  the  little  church  of  Domine,  quo  vadis,*  I  might 
say  to  myself:  'Juliane,  quo  vadis?^  'To  perform  an 
act  a  httle  better  than  the  majority  of  my  actions,'  I 
might  reply." 

*"  Lord,  whither  art  thou  going?" 
13  193  ] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

That  impressionable  soul  which  vibrated  at  the 
slightest  contact  was  touched  by  the  souvenir  of  one  of 
the  innumerable  pious  legends  which  nineteen  centuries 
of  Catholicism  have  suspended  at  all  the  corners  of 
Rome  and  its  surrounding  districts.  He  recalled  the 
touching  story  of  St.  Peter  flying  from  persecution  and 
meeting  our  Lord:  ''Lord,  whither  art  thou  going?" 
asked  the  apostle.  "To  be  crucified  a  second  time," 
replied  the  Saviour,  and  Peter  was  ashamed  of  his 
weakness  and  returned  to  martyrdom.  Montfanon 
himself  had  related  that  episode  to  the  novelist,  who 
again  began  to  reflect  upon  the  Marquis's  character 
and  the  best  means  of  approaching  him.  He  forgot 
to  glance  at  the  vast  solitude  of  the  Roman  suburbs 
before  him,  and  so  deep  was  his  reverie  that  he  almost 
passed  unheeded  the  object  of  his  search.  Another 
disappointment  awaited  him  at  the  first  point  in  his 
voyage  of  exploration. 

The  monk  who  came  at  his  ring  to  open  the  door  of 
the  inclosure  contiguous  to  St.  Cali.xtus,  informed  him 
that  he  of  whom  he  was  in  search  had  left  half  an 
hour  before. 

"You  will  fmd  him  at  the  Basilica  of  Saint  Ncree 
and  Saint  Achilles,"  added  the  Trappist;  "it  is  the 
jetc  of  those  two  saints,  and  at  five  o'clock  there  will 
be  a  procession  in  their  catacombs.  ...  It  is  a  fifteen 
minutes'  ride  from  here,  near  the  tower  Marancia,  on 
the  Via  Ardeatina." 

"Shall  1  miss  him  a  third  time?"  thought  Dorsenne, 
alighting  from  the  carriage  (inaliy,  and  proceeding  on 
foot  to  the  ojxning  which  leads  to  the  subterranean 

I  194  j 


COSMOPOLIS 

Necropolis  dedicated  to  the  two  saints  who  were  the 
eunuchs  of  Domitilhi,  the  niece  of  Emperor  Vespasian. 
A  few  ruins  and  a  dilapidated  house  alone  mark  the 
spot  where  once  stood  the  pious  Princess's  magnificent 
villa.  The  gate  was  open,  and,  meeting  no  one  who 
could  direct  him,  the  young  man  took  several  steps  in 
the  subterranean  passage.  He  perceived  that  the  long 
gallery  was  lighted.  He  entered  there,  saying  to  him- 
self that  the  row  of  tapers,  lighted  every  ten  paces, 
assuredly  marked  the  line  which  the  procession  would 
follow,  and  which  led  to  the  central  basilica.  Although 
his  anxiety  as  to  the  issue  of  his  undertaking  was 
extreme,  he  could  not  help  being  impressed  by  the 
grandeur  of  the  sight  presented  by  the  catacomb  thus 
illuminated.  The  uneven  niches  reserved  for  the  dead, 
asleep  in  the  peace  of  the  Lord  for  so  many  centuries, 
made  recesses  in  the  corridors  and  gave  them  a  solemn 
and  tragical  aspect.  Inscriptions  were  to  be  seen 
there,  traced  on  the  stone,  and  all  spoke  of  the  great 
hope  which  those  first  Christians  had  cherished,  the 
same  which  believers  of  our  day  cherish. 

Julien  knew  enough  of  symbols  to  understand  the 
significance  of  the  images  between  which  the  perse- 
cuted of  the  primitive  church  had  laid  their  fathers. 
They  are  so  touching  and  so  simple!  The  anchor 
represents  safety  in  the  storm;  the  gentle  dove  and 
the  ewe,  symbols  of  the  soul,  which  flies  away  and  seeks 
its  shepherd;  the  phoenix,  whose  wings  announce  the 
resurrection.  Then  there  were  the  bread  and  the 
wine,  the  branches  of  the  olive  and  the  palm.  The 
silent  cemetery  was  filled  with  a  faint  aroma  of  incense, 

[195] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

noticed  by  Dorsenne  on  entering.  High  mass,  cele- 
brated in  the  morning,  left  the  sacred  perfume  diffused 
among  those  bones,  once  the  forms  of  human  beings 
who  kneeled  there  amid  the  same  holy  aroma.  The 
contrast  was  strong  between  that  spot,  where  every- 
thing spoke  of  things  eternal,  and  the  drama  of  pas- 
sion, worldly  and  culpable,  the  progress  of  which 
agitated  even  Dorsenne.  At  that  moment  he  appeared 
to  himself  in  the  light  of  a  profaner,  although  he  was 
obeying  generous  and  humane  instincts.  He  expe- 
rienced a  sense  of  relief  when,  at  a  bend  in  one  of  the 
corridors  which  he  had  selected  from  among  many 
others,  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  a  priest, 
who  held  in  his  hand  a  basket  filled  with  the  petals 
of  flowers,  destined,  no  doubt,  for  the  procession. 
Dorsenne  inquired  of  him  the  way  to  the  Basilica  in 
Italian,  while  the  reply  was  given  in  perfect  French, 

"Perhaps  you  know  the  Marquis  de  Montfanon, 
father?"  asked  the  novelist. 

"I  am  one  of  the  chaplains  of  Saint  Louis,"  said 
the  priest,  with  a  smile,  adding:  "You  will  find  him 
in  the  Basilica." 

"Now,  the  moment  has  come,"  thought  Dorsenne, 
"I  must  be  subtle.  .  .  .  After  all,  it  is  charity  I  am 
about  to  ask  him  to  do.  .  .  .  Here  I  am.  I  recog- 
nize the  staircase  and  the  opening  above." 

A  corner  of  the  sky,  indeed,  was  to  be  seen,  and  a 
ray  of  light  entered  which  permitted  the  writer  to 
distinguish  him  whom  he  was  seeking  among  the  few 
persons  assembled  in  the  ruined  chapel,  the  most  ven- 
erable of  all  those  which  encircle  Rome  with  a  hidden 

[196] 


COSMOPOLIS 

girdle  of  sanctuaries.  Montfanon,  too  recognizable, 
alas!  by  the  empty  sleeve  of  his  black  redingote,  was 
seated  on  a  chair,  not  very  far  from  the  altar,  on  which 
burned  enormous  tapers.  Priests  and  monks  were 
arranging  baskets  filled  with  petals,  like  those  of  the 
chaplain,  whom  Dorsenne  had  just  met.  A  group  of 
three  curious  visitors  commented  in  whispers  upon 
the  paintings,  scarcely  visible  on  the  discolored  stucco 
of  the  ceiling.  Montfanon  was  entirely  absorbed  in 
the  book  which  he  held  in  his  one  hand.  The  large 
features  of  his  face,  ennobled  and  almost  transfigured 
by  the  ardor  of  devotion,  gave  him  the  admirable 
expression  of  an  old  Christian  soldier.  Bonus  miles 
Chrisii—d.  good  soldier  of  Christ— had  been  inscribed 
upon  the  tomb  of  the  chief  under  whom  he  had  been 
wounded  at  Patay.  One  would  have  taken  him  for 
a  guardian  layman  of  the  tombs  of  the  martyrs,  ca- 
pable of  confessing  his  faith  like  them,  even  to  the 
death.  And  when  Julien  determined  to  approach  and 
to  touch  him  lightly  on  the  shoulder,  he  saw  that,  in 
the  nobleman's  clear,  blue  eyes,  ordinarily  so  gay, 
and  sometimes  so  choleric,  sparkled  unshed  tears. 
His  voice,  too,  naturally  sharp,  was  softened  by  the 
emotion  of  the  thought  which  his  reading,  the  place, 
the  time,  the  occupation  of  his  day  had  awakened 
within  him. 

"Ah,  you  here?"  said  he  to  his  young  friend,  with- 
out any  astonishment.  "You  have  come  for  the 
procession.  That  is  well.  You  will  hear  sung  the 
lovely  lines:  Hi  sunt  quos  fatne  miindus  ahhorrnity 
He  pronounced  ou  as  w,  a  V  Italienne,  for  his  liturgic 

[197] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

training  had  been  received  in  Rome.  "The  season 
is  favorable  for  the  ceremonies.  The  tourists  have 
gone.  There  will  only  be  people  here  who  pray  and 
who  feel,  like  you.  .  .  .  And  to  feel  is  half  of  prayer. 
The  other  half  is  to  believe.  You  will  become  one  of 
us.  I  have  always  predicted  it.  There  is  no  peace 
but  here." 

"I  would  gladly  have  come  only  for  the  procession," 
replied  Dorsenne,  "but  my  visit  has  another  motive, 
dear  friend,"  said  he,  in  a  still  lower  tone.  "I  have 
been  seeking  for  you  for  more  than  an  hour,  that  you 
might  aid  me  in  rendering  a  great  service  to  several 
people,  in  preventing  a  very  great  misfortune,  perhaps. " 

"I  can  help  you  to  prevent  a  very  great  misfortune?" 
repeated  Alontfanon. 

"Yes,"  replied  Dorsenne,  "but  this  is  not  the  place 
in  which  to  explain  to  you  the  details  of  the  long  and 
terrible  adventure.  ...  At  what  hour  is  the  cere- 
mony? I  will  wait  for  you,  and  tell  it  to  you  on  leav- 
ing here." 

"It  does  not  begin  until  five  o'clock — five-thirty," 
said  Montfanon,  looking  at  his  watch,  "and  it  is  now 
fifteen  minutes  past  four.  Let  us  leave  the  catacomb, 
if  you  wish,  and  you  can  repeat  your  story  to  me  up 
above.  A  very  great  misfortune?  Well,"  he  added, 
pressing  tlu-  hand  of  the  young  man  whom,  personally, 
he  liked  as  much  as  he  detested  his  views,  "rest  as- 
sured, my  dear  child,  we  will  ])revent  it!" 

There  was  in  the  manner  in  which  he  uttered  those 
words  the  Iranfjuillity  of  a  m\u(]  wliich  knows  not  un- 
easiness, that  of  a  believer  who  feels  sure  of  always 

[,98] 


COSMOPOLIS 

accomplishing  all  that  he  wishes  to  do.  It  would 
not  have  been  Montfanon,  that  is  to  say,  a  species  of 
visionary,  who  loved  to  argue  with  Dorsenne,  because 
he  knew  that  in  spite  of  all  he  was  understood,  if  he 
had  not  continued,  as  they  walked  along  the  lighted 
corridor,  while  remounting  toward  daylight: 

"If  it  is  all  the  same  to  you,  sir  apologist  of  the  mod- 
ern world,  I  should  like  to  pause  here  and  ask  you  frank- 
ly: Do  you  not  feel  yourself  more  contemporary  with 
all  the  dead  who  slumber  within  these  walls  than  with 
a  radical  elector  or  a  free-mason  deputy  ?  Do  you  not 
feel  that  if  these  martyrs  had  not  come  to  pray  be- 
neath these  vaults  eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  the 
best  part  of  your  soul  would  not  exist?  Where  will 
you  find  a  poetry  more  touching  than  that  of  these 
symbols  and  of  these  epitaphs?  That  admirable  De 
Rossi  showed  me  one  at  Saint  Calixtus  last  year.  My 
tears  flow  as  I  recall  it.  'Pete  pro  Phoehe  et  pro  vir- 
ginio  ejus.  Pray  for  Phoebus  and  for — How  do  you 
translate  the  word  virginius,  the  husband  who  has 
known  only  one  wife,  the  virgin  husband  of  a  virgin 
spouse?  Your  youth  will  pass,  Dorsenne.  You  will 
one  day  feel  what  I  feel,  the  happiness  which  is 
wanting  on  account  of  bygone  errors,  and  you  will 
comprehend  that  it  is  only  to  be  found  in  Christian 
marriage,  whose  entire  sublimity  is  summed  up  in 
this  prayer:  Pro  virginio  ejus.  .  .  .  You  will  be  like 
me  then,  and  you  will  find  in  this  book,"  he  held  up 
VEiicologe,  which  he  clasped  in  his  hand,  "something 
through  which  to  offer  up  to  God  your  remorse  and 
your  regrets.     Do  you  know  the  hymn  of  the  Holy 

[199] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

Sacrament,  Adoro  te,  devote?  No.  Yet  you  are  capa- 
ble of  feeling  what  is  contained  in  these  lines.  Lis- 
ten. It  is  this  idea:  That  on  the  cross  one  sees  only 
the  man,  not  the  God;  that  in  the  host  one  does  not 
even  see  the  man,  and  that  yet  one  believes  in  the 
real  presence. 

In  cruce  latebat  sola  Deitas. 

At  hie  latet  sitnul  et  humanitas. 

A  mho  tamen  credens  atque  confiiens  .  .  . 

"And  now  this  last  verse: 

Peto  quod  petivit  latro  poenitens  !  * 

"What  a  cry!  Ah,  but  it  is  beautiful!  It  is  beau- 
tiful! What  words  to  say  in  dying!  And  what  did 
the  poor  thief  ask,  that  Dixmas  of  whom  the  church 
has  made  a  saint  for  that  one  appeal:  ^Remember  me, 
Lord,  in  Thy  kingdom  P  But  we  have  arrived.  Stoop, 
that  you  may  not  spoil  your  hat.  Now,  what  do  you 
want  with  me?  You  know  the  motto  of  the  Mont- 
fanons:  Excelsior  et  firmior — Always  higher  and  al- 
ways firmer.  .  .  .  One  can  never  do  too  many  good 
deeds.  If  it  be  possible,  present,  as  we  said  to  the  roll- 
call." 

A  singular  mixture  of  fervor  and  of  good-nature, 
of  enthusiastic  eloquence  and  of  political  or  religious 
fanaticism,  was  Montfanon.  But  the  good-nature 
rapidly  vanished  from  his  face,  at  once  so  haughty 
and  so  simple,  in  proportion  as  Dorsenne's  story  pro- 
ceeded.    The  writer,  indeed,  did  not  make  the  error 

*  I  ask  that  whirli  tlic  penitent  thief  asked. 
[  200  J 


COSMOPOLIS 

of  at  once  formulating  his  proposition.  He  felt  that 
he  could  not  argue  with  the  pontifical  zouave  of  by- 
gone days.  Either  the  latter  would  look  upon  it  as 
monstrous  and  absurd,  or  he  would  see  in  it  a  char- 
itable duty  to  be  accomplished,  and  then,  whatever 
annoyance  the  matter  might  occasion  him,  he  would 
accept  it,  as  he  would  bestow  alms.  It  was  that  chord 
of  generosity  which  Julien,  diplomatic  for  once  in  his 
life,  essayed  to  touch  by  his  confidence.  Gaining 
authority  by  their  conversation  of  a  few  days  before, 
he  related  all  he  could  of  Gorka's  visit,  concealing  the 
fact  of  that  word  of  honor  so  falsely  given,  which 
still  oppressed  him  with  a  mortal  weight.  He  told 
how  he  had  soothed  the  madman,  how  he  conducted 
him  to  the  station,  then  he  described  the  meeting  of 
the  two  rivals  twenty-four  hours  later.  He  dwelt  upon 
Alba's  manner  that  evening  and  the  infamy  of  the 
anonymous  letters  written  to  Madame  Steno's  dis- 
carded lover  and  to  her  daughter.  And  after  he  had 
reported  the  mysterious  quarrel  which  had  suddenly 
arisen  between  Gorka  and  Chapron: 

"I,  therefore,  promised  to  be  his  second,"  he  con- 
cluded, "because  I  believe  it  my  absolute  duty  to  do 
all  I  can  to  prevent  the  duel  from  taking  place.  Only 
think  of  it.  If  it  should  take  place,  and  if  one  of 
them  is  killed  or  wounded,  how  can  the  affair  be  kept 
secret  in  this  gossiping  city  of  Rome?  And  what 
remarks  it  will  call  forth!  It  is  evident  that  these 
two  boys  have  quarrelled  only  on  account  of  the  rela- 
tions between  Madame  Steno  and  Maitland.  By 
what  strange  coincidence?     Of  that  I  know  nothing. 

[201] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

But  there  will  not  be  a  doubt  in  public  opinion.  And 
can  you  not  see  additional  anonymous  letters  written 
to  Alba,  Madame  Gorka,  Madame  Maitland?  .  .  . 
The  men  I  do  not  care  for.  .  .  .  Two  out  of  three 
merit  all  that  comes  to  them.  But  those  innocent 
creatures — is  it  not  frightful?" 

"Frightful,  indeed,"  replied  Montfanon;  "it  is 
that  which  renders  those  adulterous  adventures  so 
hideous.  There  are  many  people  who  are  affected 
by  it  besides  the  guilty  ones.  .  .  .  You  see  that,  you 
who  thought  that  society  so  pleasant,  so  refined,  so 
interesting,  the  day  before  yesterday?  But  it  does  no 
good  to  recriminate.  I  understand.  You  have  come 
to  ask  me  to  advise  you  in  your  role  of  second.  My 
follies  of  youth  will  enable  me  to  direct  you.  .  .  . 
Correctness  in  the  slightest  detail  and  no  nerves,  when 
one  has  to  arrange  a  duel.  Oh!  You  will  have 
trouble.  Gorka  is  mad.  I  know  the  Poles.  They 
have  great  faults,  but  they  are  brave.  Lord,  but  they 
are  brave!  And  little  Chapron,  I  know  him,  too;  he 
has  one  of  those  stubborn  natures,  which  would  allow 
their  breasts  to  be  pierced  without  saying  *Ouf!'  And 
amour  propre.  He  has  good  soldier's  blood  in  his 
veins,  that  child,  notwithstanding  the  mixture.  And 
with  that  mixture,  do  you  not  see  what  a  hero  the 
first  of  the  three  Dumas,  the  mulatto  general,  has 
been?  .  .  .  Yes.  You  have  there  a  hard  job,  my 
good  Dor.senne.  .  .  .  You  will  need  another  second 
to  assist  you,  who  will  have  the  same  views  as  you 
and — pardon  me — more  experience,  perhaj)s." 

"Manjuis, "  rcphed  Julien,  whose  voice  trembled 
[  202  j 


COSMOPOLIS 

with  anxiety,  ''there  is  only  one  person  in  Rome  who 
would  be  respected  enough,  venerated  by  all,  so  that 
his  intervention  in  that  delicate  and  dangerous  matter 
be  decisive,  one  person  who  could  suggest  excuses  to 
Chapron,  or  obtain  them  from  the  other.  ...  In  short, 
there  is  only  one  person  who  has  the  authority  of  a 
hero  before  whom  they  will  remain  silent  when  he 
speaks  of  honor,  and  that  person  is  you." 

"I,"  exclaimed  Montfanon,  "I,  you  wish  me  to 
be"— 

"One  of  Chapron's  seconds,"  interrupted  Dorsenne. 
"Yes.  It  is  true.  I  come  on  his  part  and  for  that. 
Do  not  tell  me  what  I  already  know,  that  your  position 
will  not  allow  of  such  a  step.  It  is  because  it  is  what 
it  is,  that  I  thought  of  coming  to  you.  Do  not  tell 
me  that  your  religious  jjrinciples  are  opposed  to  duels. 
It  is  that  there  may  be  no  duel  that  I  conjure  you  to 
accept.  ...  It  is  essential  that  it  does  not  take  place. 
I  swear  to  you,  that  the  peace  of  too  many  innocent 
persons  is  concerned." 

And  he  continued,  calling  into  service  at  that  mo- 
ment all  the  intelligence  and  all  the  eloquence  of  which 
he  was  capable.  He  could  follow  on  the  face  of  the 
former  duellist,  who  had  become  the  most  ardent  of 
Catholics  and  the  most  monomaniacal  of  old  bachelors, 
twenty  diverse  expressions.  At  length  Montfanon 
laid  his  hand  with  veritable  solemnity  on  his  inter- 
locutor's arm  and  said  to  him: 

"Listen,  Dorsenne,  do  not  tell  me  any  more.  .  .  . 
I  consent  to  what  you  ask  of  me,  but  on  two  condi- 
tions.    They  are  these:    The  first  is  that  Monsieur 

[203] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

Chapron  will  trust  absolutely  to  my  judgment,  what- 
soever it  may  be;  the  second  is  that  you  will  retire 
with  me  if  these  gentlemen  persist  in  their  childish- 
ness. ...  I  promise  to  aid  you  in  fulfilling  a  mission 
of  charity,  and  not  anything  else;  I  repeat,  not  any- 
thing else.  Before  bringing  Monsieur  Chapron  to  me 
you  will  repeat  to  him  what  I  have  said,  word  for 
word." 

"Word  for  word,"  replied  the  other,  adding:  "He 
is  at  home  awaiting  the  result  of  my  undertaking." 

"Then,"  said  the  Marquis,  "I  will  return  to  Rome 
with  you  at  once.  He  has  probably  already  received 
Gorka's  seconds,  and  if  they  really  wish  to  arrange  a 
duel  the  rule  is  not  to  put  it  off.  ...  I  shall  not  see 
my  procession,  but  to  prevent  misfortune  is  to  do  a 
good  deed,  and  it  is  one  way  of  praying  to  God." 

"Let  me  press  your  hand,  my  noble  friend,"  said 
Dorscnne;  "never  have  I  better  understood  what  a 
truly  brave  man  is." 

When  the  writer  alighted,  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
later,  at  the  house  on  the  Rue  Leopardi,  after  having 
seen  Montfanon  home,  he  felt  sustained  by  such  moral 
support  that  was  almost  joyous.  He  found  Florcnt 
in  his  species  of  salon-smoking-room,  arranging  his 
papers  with  methodical  composure. 

"He  accepts,"  were  the  first  words  the  young  men 
uttered,  almost  simultaneously,  while  Dorscnne  re- 
peated Montfanon's  words. 

"I  depend  absoUitcly  on  you  two,"  replied  tlie 
otluT.  "1  ha\'c  no  ihirst  for  Monsieur  de  Gorka's 
blood.  .  .  .   lUil  that  gentleman  must  not  accuse  the 

[204] 


COSMOPOLIS 

grandson  of  Colonel  Chapron  of  cowardice.  .  .  , 
For  that  I  rely  upon  the  relative  of  General  Dorsenne 
and  on  the  old  soldier  of  Charette. " 

As  he  spoke,  Florent  handed  a  letter  to  Julien,  who 
asked:   "From  whom  is  this?" 

"This,"  said  Florent,  "is  a  letter  addressed  to  you, 
on  this  very  table  half  an  hour  ago  by  Baron  Hafner. 
.  .  .  There  is  some  news.  I  have  received  my  ad- 
versary's seconds.  The  Baron  is  one,  Ardea  the 
other." 

"Baron  Hafner!"  exclaimed  Dorsenne.  "What  a 
singular  choice!"  He  paused,  and  he  and  Florent 
exchanged  glances.  They  understood  one  another 
without  speaking.  Boleslas  could  not  have  found  a 
surer  means  of  informing  Madame  Steno  as  to  the 
plan  he  intended  to  employ  in  his  vengeance.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  known  devotion  of  the  Baron  for  the 
Countess  gave  one  chance  more  for  a  pacific  solution, 
at  the  same  time  that  the  fanaticism  of  Montfanon 
would  be  confronted  with  Fanny's  father,  an  episode 
of  comedy  suddenly  cast  across  Gorka's  drama  of 
jealousy. 

Julien  resumed  with  a  smile:  "You  must  watch 
Montfanon's  face  when  we  inform  him  of  those  two 
witnesses.  He  is  a  man  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
you  know,  a  Montluc,  a  Due  d'Alba,  a  Philippe  II. 
I  do  not  know  which  he  detests  the  most,  the  Free- 
masons, the  Free-thinkers,  the  Protestants,  the  Jews,  or 
the  Germans.  And  as  this  obscure  and  tortuous  Haf- 
ner is  a  little  of  everything,  he  has  vowed  hatred  against 
him!  .  .  .  Leaving  that  out  of  the  question,  he  sus- 

[205] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

pects  him  of  being  a  secret  agent  in  the  service  of 
the  Triple  Alhance  !     But  let  us  see  the  letter. " 

He  opened  and  glanced  through  it.  "  This  craftiness 
serves  for  something,  it  is  equivalent  almost  to  kind- 
ness. He,  too,  has  felt  that  it  is  necessary  to  end  our 
affair,  were  it  only  to  avoid  scandal.  He  appoints  a 
meeting  at  his  house  between  six  and  seven  o'clock 
with  me  and  your  second.  Come,  time  is  flying.  You 
must  come  to  the  Marquis  to  make  your  request 
officially.  Begin  this  way.  Obtain  his  promise  before 
mentioning  Hafner's  name.  I  know  him.  He  will 
not  retract  his  word.     But  it  is  just." 

The  two  friends  found  Montfanon  awaiting  them 
in  his  office,  a  large  room  filled  with  books,  from  which 
could  be  obtained  a  fine  view  of  the  panorama  of 
the  Forum,  more  majestic  still  on  that  afternoon  when 
the  shadows  of  the  columns  and  arches  grew  longer 
on  the  sidewalk.  The  room  with  its  brick  floor  had 
no  other  comfort  than  a  carpet  under  the  large  desk 
littered  with  papers — no  doubt  fragments  of  the 
famous  work  on  the  relations  of  the  French  nobility 
and  the  Church.  A  crucifix  stood  upon  the  desk. 
On  the  wall  were  two  engravings,  that  of  Monseigneur 
Pic,  the  holy  Bishop  of  Poitiers,  and  that  of  General 
do  Sonis,  on  foot,  with  his  wooden  leg,  and  a  painting 
re])rcsenting  St.  Francois,  the  patron  of  the  house. 
Those  were  the  only  artistic  decorations  of  the  modest 
habitation.  The  nol)leman  often  said:  "I  have  freed 
myself  from  the  tyranny  of  ()1)jects. "  But  with  that 
marvellous  background  of  grandiose  ruins  and  that 
sky,  the  simj)le  spot  was  an  incomparable  retreat  in 

[  2O0  j 


COSMOPOLIS 

which  to  end  in  meditation  and  renouncement  a  h"fe 
already  shaken  by  the  tempests  of  the  senses  and  of 
the  world. 

The  hermit  of  that  Thebaide  rose  to  greet  his  two 
visitors,  and  pointing  out  to  Chapron  an  open  volume 
on  his  table,  he  said  to  him: 

"I  was  thinking  of  you.  It  is  Chateauvillars's  book 
on  duelling.  It  contains  a  code  which  is  not  very 
complete.  I  recommend  it  to  you,  however,  if  ever 
you  have  to  fulfil  a  mission  like  ours,"  and  he  pointed 
to  Dorsenne  and  himself,  with  a  gesture  which  con- 
stituted the  most  amicable  of  acceptations.  "It  seems 
you  had  too  hasty  a  hand.  ...  Ha!  ha!  Do  not 
defend  yourself.  Such  as  you  see  me,  at  twenty-one 
I  threw  a  plate  in  the  face  of  a  gentleman  who  ban- 
tered Comte  de  Chambord  before  a  number  of  Jacobins 
at  a  table  d'hote  in  the  provinces.  See,"  continued  he, 
raising  his  white  moustache  and  disclosing  a  scar,  "this 
is  the  souvenir.  The  fellow  was  once  a  dragoon;  he 
proposed  the  sabre.  I  accepted,  and  this  is  what  I 
got,  while  he  lost  two  fingers.  .  .  .  That  will  not  hap- 
pen to  us  this  time  at  least.  .  .  .  Dorsenne  has  told 
you  our  conditions." 

"And  I  replied  that  I  was  sure  I  could  not  intrust 
my  honor  to  better  hands,"  replied  Florent. 

"Cease!"  replied  Montfanon,  with  a  gesture  of  sat- 
isfaction. "No  more  phrases.  It  is  well.  Moreover, 
I  judged  you,  sir,  from  the  day  on  which  you  spoke 
to  me  at  Saint  Louis.  You  honor  your  dead.  That  is 
why  I  shall  be  happy,  very  happy,  to  be  useful  to 
you." 

[207] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"Now  tell  me  very  clearly  the  recital  you  made  to 
Dorsenne. " 

Then  Florent  related  concisely  that  which  had  taken 
place  between  him  and  Gorka — that  is  to  say,  their 
argument  and  his  passion,  carefully  omitting  the  de- 
tails in  which  the  name  of  his  brother-in-law  would 
be  mixed. 

"The  deuce!"  said  Montfanon,  famiharly,  "the 
affair  looks  bad,  very  bad.  .  .  .  You  see,  a  second  is 
a  confessor.  You  have  had  a  discussion  in  the  street 
with  Monsieur  Gorka,  but  about  what  ?  You  can  not 
reply?  What  did  he  say  to  you  to  provoke  you  to  the 
point  of  wishing  to  strike  him?  That  is  the  first  key 
to  the  position." 

"I  can  not  reply,"  said  Florent. 

"Then,"  resumed  the  Marquis,  after  a  silence, 
"there  only  remains  to  assert  that  the  gesture  on  your 
part  was — how  shall  I  say?  Unmeditated  and  un- 
finished. That  is  the  second  key  to  the  position.  .  .  . 
You  have  no  special  grudge  against  Monsieur  Gorka?" 

"None." 

"Nor  he  against  you?" 

"None." 

"The  affair  looks  better,"  said  Montfanon,  who  was 
silent  for  a  time,  to  resume,  in  the  voice  of  a  man  who 
is  talking  to  himself,  "Count  Gorka  considers  himself 
offended  ?  But  is  there  any  offence  ?  It  is  that  which 
we  should  discuss.  ...  An  assault  or  the  threat  of 
an  assault  would  afford  occasion  for  an  arrangement. 
.  .  .  But  a  gesture  restrained,  since  it  was  not  carried 
into  effect.  .  .  .  Do  not  interrupt  mc,"  he  continued. 

[  208  J 


COSMOPOLIS 

"I  am  trying  to  understand  it  clearly.  .  .  .  We  must 
arrive  at  a  solution.  Wc  shall  have  to  express  our 
regret,  leaving  the  field  open  to  another  reparation, 
if  Gorka  requires  it.  .  .  .  And  he  will  not  require  it. 
The  entire  problem  now  rests  on  the  choice  of  his 
seconds.  .  .  .  Whom  will  he  select?" 

"I  have  already  received  visits  from  them,"  said 
Florent.     "  Half  an  hour  ago.     One  is  Prince  d'Ardea. " 

"He  is  a  gentleman,"  replied  Montfanon.  "I  shall 
not  be  sorry  to  see  him  to  tell  him  my  feelings  with 
regard  to  the  public  sale  of  his  palace,  to  which  he 
should  never  have  allowed  himself  to  be  driven.  .  .  , 
And  the  other?" 

"The  other?"  interrupted  Dorscnne.  "Prepare 
yourself  for  a  blow.  ...  I  swear  to  you  I  did  not 
know  his  name  when  I  went  in  search  of  you  at  the 
catacomb.     It  is— in  short — it  is  Baron  Hafner. " 

"Baron  Hafner!"  exclaimed  Montfanon.  "Boleslas 
Gorka,  the  descendant  of  the  Gorkas,  of  that  grand 
Luc  Gorka  who  was  Palatine  of  Posen  and  Bishop  of 
Cujavie,  has  chosen  for  his  second  Monsieur  Justus 
Hafner,  the  thief,  the  scoundrel,  who  had  the  disgrace- 
ful suit!  .  .  .  No,  Dorsenne,  do  not  tell  me  that;  it 
is  not  possible."  Then,  with  the  air  of  a  combatant: 
"We  will  challenge  him,  that  is  all,  for  his  lack  of 
honor.  I  take  it  upon  myself,  as  well  as  to  tell  of  his 
deeds  to  Boleslas.  We  will  spend  an  enjoyable  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  there,  I  promise  you." 

"You  will  not  do  that,"  said  Dorsenne,  quickly. 
"First,  with  regard  to  official  honor,  there  is  only 
one  law,  is  there  not?  Hafner  was  acquitted  and  his 
14  [  209  ] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

adversaries  condemned.  You  told  me  so  the  other 
day.  .  .  .  And  then,  you  forget  the  conversation  we 
just  had." 

"Pardon,"  interrupted  Florent,  in  his  turn.  "Mon- 
sieur de  Montfanon,  in  promising  to  assist  me,  has 
done  me  a  great  honor,  which  I  shall  never  forget.  If 
there  should  result  from  it  any  annoyance  to  him  I 
should  be  deeply  grieved,  and  I  am  ready  to  release 
him  from  his  promise." 

"No,"  said  the  Marquis,  after  another  silence.  "I 
will  not  take  it  back."  ...  He  was  so  magnanimous 
when  his  two  or  three  hobbies  were  not  involved  that 
the  slightest  delicacy  awoke  an  echo  in  him.  He 
again  extended  his  hand  to  Chapron  and  continued, 
but  with  an  accent  which  betrayed  suppressed  irrita- 
tion: "After  all,  it  docs  not  concern  us  if  Monsieur 
Gorka  has  chosen  to  be  represented  in  an  affair  of 
honor  by  one  whom  he  should  not  even  salute.  .  .  . 
You  will,  then,  give  our  two  names  to  those  two  gentle- 
men .  .  .  and  Dorsenne  and  I  will  await  them,  as  is 
the  rule.  ...  It  is  their  place  to  come,  since  they  are 
the  proxies  of  the  person  insulted." 

"They  have  already  arranged  a  meeting  for  this 
evening,"  replied  Chapron. 

"What's  arranged?  With  whom?  For  whom?" 
exclaimed  Montfanon,  a  j^rcy  to  a  fresh  access  of 
choler.  "With  you?  .  .  .  For  us?  .  .  .  Ah,  I  do  not 
like  such  cone  hut  where  such  grave  matters  are  con- 
cerned. .  .  .  'Vhv  code  is  aljsolutc  on  that  sul)ject. 
.  .  .  Their  challenge  once  made,  to  which  you.  Mon- 
sieur Chapron,  have  to  reply  by  yes  or  no,  these  gentle- 

[210] 


COSMOPOLIS 

men  should  withdraw  immediately.  ...  It  is  not 
your  fault,  it  is  Ardea's,  who  has  allowed  that  dabbler 
in  spurious  dividends  to  perform  his  part  of  intriguer. 
.  .  .  But  we  will  rectify  all  in  the  right  way,  which  is 
the  French.  .  .  .  And  where  is  the  rendezvous?" 

^'I  will  read  to  you  the  letter  which  the  Baron  left 
for  me  with  Florent, "  said  Dorsenne,  who  indeed  read 
the  very  courteous  note  Hafncr  had  written  to  him,  in 
which  he  excused  himself  for  choosing  his  own  house 
as  a  rendezvous  for  the  four  witnesses.  "One  can  not 
ignore  so  polite  a  note?" 

"There  are  too  many  dear  sirs,  and  too  many  com- 
pliments,^^ said  Montfanon,  brusquely.  "wSit  here," 
he  continued,  relinquishing  his  armchair  to  Florent, 
"and  inform  the  two  men  of  our  names  and  address, 
adding  that  we  are  at  their  service  and  ignoring  the 
first  inaccuracy  on  their  part.  Let  them  return!  .  .  . 
And  you,  Dorsenne,  since  you  are  afraid  of  wounding 
that  gentleman,  I  will  not  prevent  you  from  going  to 
his  house — personally,  do  you  hear — to  warn  him  that 
Monsieur  Chapron,  here  present,  has  chosen  for  his 
first  second  a  disagreeable  person,  an  old  duellist, 
anything  you  like,  but  who  desires  strict  form,  and, 
first  of  all,  a  correct  call  made  upon  us  by  them,  in 
order  to  settle  officially  upon  a  rendezvous." 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  asked  Dorsenne,  when  he 
with  Florent  descended  Montfanon's  staircase.  "He 
is  a  different  man  since  you  mentioned  the  Baron  to 
him.  The  discussion  between  them  will  be  a  hot  one. 
I  hope  he  will  not  spoil  all  by  his  folly.  On  my  honor, 
if  I  had  guessed  whom  Gorka  would  choose  I  should 

[211] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

not  have  suggested  to  you  the  old  leaguer,  as  I  call 
him." 

"And  I,  if  Monsieur  de  Montfanon  should  make  me 
fight  at  five  paces,"  replied  Chapron,  with  a  laugh, 
"would  be  grateful  to  you  for  having  brought  me  into 
relations  with  him.  He  is  a  whole-souled  man,  as  was 
my  poor  father,  as  is  Maitland.     I  adore  such  people. " 

"Is  there  no  means  of  having  at  once  heart  and 
head?"  said  Juhen  to  himself,  on  reaching  the  Palais 
Savorelli,  where  Hafner  lived,  and  recalling  the  ]\Iar- 
quis's  choler  on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other  the 
egotism  of  Maitland,  of  which  Florent's  last  words 
reminded  him.  His  apprehension  of  the  afternoon 
returned  in  a  greater  degree,  for  he  knew  Montfanon 
to  be  very  sensitive  on  certain  points,  and  it  was  one 
of  those  points  which  would  be  wounded  to  the  quick 
by  the  forced  relations  with  Gorka's  witnesses.  "I 
do  not  trust  Hafner,"  thought  he;  "if  the  cunning 
fellow  has  accepted  the  mission  utterly  contrary  to  his 
tastes,  his  habits,  almost  to  his  age,  it  must  be  to  con- 
nive with  his  future  son-in-law  and  to  conciliate  all. 
Perhaps  even  the  marriage  had  been  already  settled? 
I  hope  not.  The  Marquis  would  be  so  furious  he 
would  require  the  duel  to  a  letter." 

The  young  man  had  guessed  ariglit.  Chance,  which 
often  brings  one  event  upon  another,  decreed  that 
Arflea,  at  the  very  moment  that  he  was  deliberating 
with  Gorka  as  to  the  choice  of  another  second,  received 
a  note  from  Madame  Steno  containing  simply  these 
words:  "  ]'oiir  proposal  lias  been  made,  and  the  answer 
is  yes.     May  I  he  the  first  to  embrace  you,  Simpalicone .?" 

[212] 


COSMOPOLIS 

An  ingenious  idea  occurred  to  him;  to  have  arranged 
by  his  future  father-in-law  the  quarrel  which  he  con- 
sidered at  once  absurd,  useless,  and  dangerous.  The 
eagerness  with  which  Gorka  had  accepted  Hafner's 
name,  proved,  as  Dorsenne  and  Florent  had  divined, 
his  desire  that  his  perfidious  mistress  should  be  in- 
formed of  his  doings.  As  for  the  Baron,  he  consented 
— oh,  irony  of  coincidences!— by  saying  to  Peppino 
Ardea  words  almost  identical  with  those  which  Mont- 
fanon  had  uttered  to  Dorsenne: 

"We  will  draw  up,  in  advance,  an  official  plan  of 
conciliation,  and,  if  the  matter  can  not  be  arranged, 
we  will  withdraw." 

It  was  in  such  terms  that  the  memorable  conver- 
sation was  concluded,  a  conversation  truly  worthy  of 
the  comhinazione  which  poor  Fanny's  marriage  repre- 
sented. There  had  been  less  question  of  the  marriage 
itself  than  that  of  the  services  to  be  rendered  to  the 
infidelity  of  the  woman  who  presided  over  the  sorry 
traffic!  Is  it  necessary  to  add  that  neither  Ardea  nor 
his  future  father-in-law  had  made  the  shadow  of  an 
allusion  to  the  true  side  of  the  affair?  Perhaps  at 
any  other  time  the  excessive  prudence  innate  to  the 
Baron  and  his  care  never  to  compromise  himself  would 
have  deterred  him  from  the  possible  annoyances  which 
might  arise  from  an  interference  in  the  adventure  of 
an  exasperated  and  discarded  lover.  But  his  joy  at 
the  thought  that  his  daughter  was  to  become  a  Roman 
princess — and  with  what  a  name!  — had  really  turned 
his  brain. 

He  had,  however,  the  good  sense  to  say  to  the 
[213] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

stunned  Ardea:  '^  Madame  Steno  must  know  nothing 
of  it,  at  least  beforehand.  She  would  not  fail  to 
inform  Madame  Gorka,  and  God  knows  of  what  the 
latter  would  be  capable." 

In  reality,  the  two  men  were  convinced  that  it  was 
essential,  directly  or  indirectly,  to  beware  of  warning 
Maitland.  They  employed  the  remainder  of  the  after- 
noon in  paying  their  visit  to  Florent,  then  in  sending 
telegram  after  telegram  to  announce  the  betrothal, 
with  which  charming  Fanny  seemed  more  satisfied 
since  Cardinal "  Gucrillot  had  consented,  at  simply  a 
word  from  her,  to  preside  at  her  baptism.  The  Baron, 
in  the  face  of  that  consent,  could  not  restrain  his  joy. 
He  loved  his  daughter,  strange  man,  somewhat  in  the 
manner  in  which  a  breeder  loves  a  favorite  horse  which 
has  won  the  Grand  Prix  for  him.  When  Dorsenne 
arrived,  bearing  Chapron's  note  and  Montfanon's 
message,  he  was  received  with  a  cordiality  and  a  com- 
plaisance which  at  once  enlightened  liim  upon  the 
result  of  the  matrimonial  intrigue  of  which  Alba  had 
spoken  to  him. 

"Anything  that  your  friend  wishes,  my  dear  sir.  .  .  . 
Is  it  not  so,  Pcppino?"  said  the  Baron,  seating  him- 
self at  his  table.  "Will  you  dictate  the  letter  your- 
.self,  Dorsenne?  .  .  .  See,  is  tin's  all  right?  You  will 
understand  with  what  scntinicnls  we  have  accepted 
this  mission  when  you  learn  that  T'anny  is  betrothed  to 
Prince  Ardea,  here  present.  The  news  dates  from 
three  o'clock.  So  you  are  the  first  to  know  it,  is  he 
not,  Peppino?"  lie  had  drawn  uj)  not  less  than  two 
hundred  despatches.     "Return  whenever  you  like  with 

[2I4l 


COSMOPOLIS 

the  Marquis.  ...  I  simply  ask,  under  the  circum- 
stances, that  the  interview  take  place,  if  it  be  possible, 
between  six  and  seven,  or  between  nine  and  ten,  in 
order  not  to  interfere  with  our  little  family  dinner." 

"Let  us  say  nine  o'clock,"  said  Dorsenne.  "Mon- 
sieur de  Montfanon  is  somewhat  formal.  He  would 
like  to  have  your  reply  by  letter." 

"Prince  Ardea  to  marry  Mademoiselle  Hafner!" 
That  cry  which  the  news  brought  by  Julien  wrested 
from  Montfanon  was  so  dolorous  that  the  young  man 
did  not  think  of  laughing.  He  had  thought  it  wiser 
to  prepare  his  irascible  friend,  lest  the  Baron  might 
make  some  allusion  to  the  grand  event  during  the 
course  of  the  conversation,  and  that  the  other  might 
not  make  some  impulsive  remark. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  that  the  girl's  Catholicism  was 
a  farce?  Did  I  not  tell  Monseigneur  Guerillot? 
This  was  what  she  aimed  at  all  those  years,  with  such 
perfect  hypocrisy  ?  It  was  the  Palais  Castagna.  And 
she  will  enter  there  as  mistress!  .  .  .  She  will  bring 
there  the  dishonor  of  that  pirated  gold  on  which  there 
are  stains  of  blood!  Warn  them,  that  they  do  not 
speak  to  me  of  it,  or  I  will  not  answer  for  myself.  .  .  . 
The  second  of  a  Gorka,  the  father-in-law  of  an  Ardea, 
he  triumphs,  the  thief  who  should  by  rights  be  a  con- 
vict! .  .  .  But  we  shall  see.  Will  not  all  the  other 
Roman  princes  who  have  no  blots  upon  their  escutch- 
eons, the  Orsinis,  the  Colonnas,  the  Odeschalchis, 
the  Borghescs,  the  Rospigliosis,  not  combine  to  pre- 
vent this  monstrosity?  Nobility  is  like  love,  those 
who  buy  those  sacred  things  degrade  them  in  paying 

[215I 


PAUL  BOURGET 

for  them,  and  those  to  whom  they  are  given  are  no 
better  than  mire.  .  .  .  Princess  d'Ardea!  That  crea- 
ture! Ah,  what  a  disgrace!  .  .  .  But  we  must  re- 
member our  engagement  relative  to  that  brave  young 
Chapron.  The  boy  pleases  me;  first,  because  very 
probably  he  is  going  to  fight  for  some  one  else  and  out 
of  a  devotion  which  I  can  not  very  wtII  understand! 
It  is  devotion  all  the  same,  and  it  is  chivalry!  .  .  . 
He  desires  to  prevent  that  miserable  Gorka  from  call- 
ing forth  a  scandal  which  would  have  warned  his 
sister.  .  .  .  And  then,  as  I  told  him,  he  respects  the 
dead.  .  .  .  Let  us.  .  .  .  I  have  my  wits  no  longer  about 
me,  that  intelligence  has  so  greatly  disturbed  me.  .  .  . 
Princess  dArdea!  .  .  .  Well,  write  that  we  will  be 
at  Monsieur  Hafner's  at  nine  o'clock.  ...  I  do  not 
want  any  of  those  people  at  my  house.  ...  At  yours 
it  would  not  be  proper;  you  are  too  young.  And  I 
prefer  going  to  the  father-in-law's  rather  than  to  the 
son-in-law's.  The  rascal  has  made  a  good  bargain  in 
buying  what  he  has  bought  with  his  stolen  millions. 
But  the  other.  .  .  .  And  his  great-great-uncle  might 
have  been  Jules  Second,  Pic  Fifth,  Hildebrand;  he 
would  have  sold  all  just  the  same !  ...  He  can  not  de- 
ceive himself !  He  has  heard  the  suit  against  that  man 
spoken  of!  He  knows  whence  come  those  millions! 
He  has  heard  their  family,  their  lives  spoken  of!  And 
he  has  not  been  inspired  with  too  great  a  horror  to 
accept  the  gold  of  that  adventurer.  Does  he  not 
know  what  a  name  is?  Our  name!  It  is  ourselves, 
our  honor,  in  the  mouths,  in  the  thoughts,  of  others! 
How  happy  I  am,  Dorscnne,  to  have  been  fifty-two 

[216] 


COSMOPOLIS 

years  of  age  last  month.  I  shall  be  gone  before  hav- 
ing seen  what  you  will  see,  the  agony  of  all  the  aris- 
tocrats and  royalties.  It  was  only  in  blood  that  they 
fell!  But  they  do  not  fall.  Alas!  They  fix  them- 
selves upon  the  ground,  which  is  the  saddest  of  all. 
Still,  what  matters  it  ?  The  monarchy,  the  nobility, 
and  the  Church  are  everlasting.  The  people  who  dis- 
regard them  will  die,  that  is  all.  Come,  write  your 
letter,  which  I  will  sign.  Send  it  away,  and  you  will 
dine  with  me.  We  must  go  into  the  den  provided 
with  an  argument  which  will  prevent  this  duel,  and 
sustaining  our  part  toward  our  client.  There  must 
be  an  arrangement  which  I  would  accept  myself.  I 
like  him,  I  repeat." 

The  excitement  which  began  to  startle  Dorsenne 
was  only  augmented  during  dinner,  so  much  the  more 
so  as,  on  discussing  the  conditions  of  that  arrangement 
he  hoped  to  bring  about,  the  recollection  of  his  terrible 
youth  filled  the  thoughts  and  the  discourse  of  the  for- 
mer duellist.  Was  it,  indeed,  the  same  personage  who 
recited  the  verses  of  a  hymn  in  the  catacombs  a  few 
hours  before?  It  only  required  the  feudal  in  him  to 
be  reawakened  to  transform  him.  The  fire  in  his 
eyes  and  the  color  in  his  face  betrayed  that  the  duel 
in  which  he  had  thought  best  to  engage,  out  of  charity, 
intoxicated  him  on  his  own  statement.  It  was  the 
old  amateur,  the  epicure  of  the  sword,  very  ungovern- 
able, which  stirred  within  that  man  of  faith,  in  whom 
passion  had  burned  and  who  had  loved  all  excitement, 
including  that  of  danger,  as  to-day  he  loved  his  ideas, 
as  he  loved   his  flag— immoderately.     He  no  longer 

[217] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

thought  of  the  three  women  to  be  spared  suspicion, 
nor  of  the  good  deed  to  be  accompHshed.  He  saw 
all  his  old  friends  and  their  talent  for  fighting,  the 
thrusts  of  this  one,  the  way  another  had  of  striking, 
the  composure  of  a  third,  and  then  this  refrain  inter- 
rupted constantly  his  warlike  anecdotes:  "But  why 
the  deuce  has  Gorka  chosen  that  Hafner  for  his 
second?  ...  It  is  incomprehensible."  .  .  .  On  en- 
tering the  carriage  which  was  to  bear  them  to  their 
interview,  he  heard  Dorsenne  say  to  the  coachman: 
"Palais  SavorelH." 

"That  is  the  final  blow,"  said  he,  raising  his  arm 
and  clenching  his  fist.  "The  adventurer  occupies 
the  Pretender's  house,  the  house  of  the  Stuarts."  .  .  . 
He  repeated:  "The  house  of  the  Stuarts!"  and  then 
lapsed  into  a  silence  which  the  writer  felt  to  be  laden 
with  more  storminess  than  his  last  denunciation.  He 
did  not  emerge  from  his  meditations  until  ushered  into 
the  salon  of  the  ci-devant  jeweller,  now  a  grand  seigneur 
— into  one  of  the  salons,  rather,  for  there  were  five. 
There  Montfanon  began  to  examine  everything  around 
him,  with  an  air  of  such  contempt  and  pride  that, 
notwithstanding  his  anxiety,  Dorsenne  could  not  re- 
sist laughing  and  teasing  him  by  saying: 

"You  will  not  pretend  to  say  that  there  are  no 
pretty  things  here?  These  two  paintings  by  Moroni, 
for  example?" 

"Nothing  that  is  appropriate,"  replied  Montfanon. 
"Yes,  they  are  two  magnificent  portraits  of  ancestors, 
and  this  man  has  no  ancestors!  .  .  .  There  are  some 
weapons  in  that  cupboard,  and  he  has  never  touched 

[218] 


COSMOPOLIS 

a  sword !  And  there  is  a  piece  of  tapestry  representing 
the  miracles  of  the  loaves,  which  is  a  piece  of  audacity! 
You  may  not  believe  me,  Dorsenne,  but  it  is  making 
me  ill  to  be  here.  ...  I  am  reminded  of  the  human 
toil,  of  the  human  soul  in  all  these  objects,  and  to  end 
here,  paid  for  how?  Owned  by  whom?  Close  your 
eyes  and  think  of  Schroeder  and  of  the  others  whom 
you  do  not  know.  Look  into  the  hovels  where  there 
is  neither  furniture,  fire,  nor  bread.  Then,  open  your 
eyes  and  look  at  this." 

"And  you,  my  dear  friend,"  replied  the  novelist, 
"I  conjure  you  to  think  of  our  conversation  in  the 
catacombs,  to  think  of  the  three  ladies  in  whose  names 
I  besought  you  to  aid  Florent." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Montfanon,  passing  his  hand 
over  his  brow,  "I  promise  you  to  be  calm." 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  those  words  when  the  door 
opened,  disclosing  to  view  another  room,  lighted  also, 
and  which,  to  judge  by  the  sound  of  voices,  contained 
several  persons.  No  doubt  Madame  Steno  and  Alba, 
thought  Julien;  and  the  Baron  entered,  accompanied 
by  Peppino  Ardea.  While  going  through  the  intro- 
ductions, the  writer  was  struck  by  the  contrast  offered 
between  his  three  companions.  Hafner  and  Ardea 
in  evening  dress,  with  buttonhole  bouquets,  had  the 
open  and  happy  faces  of  two  citizens  who  had  clear 
consciences.  The  usually  sallow  complexion  of  the 
business  man  was  tinged  with  excitement,  his  eyes,  as 
a  rule  so  hard,  were  gentler.  As  for  the  Prince,  the 
same  childish  carelessness  lighted  up  his  jovial  face, 
while  the  hero  of  Patay,  with  his  coarse  boots,  his 

[219] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

immense  form  enveloped  in  a  somewhat  shabby  redin- 
gote,  exhibited  a  face  so  contracted  that  one  would 
have  thought  him  devoured  by  remorse.  A  dishonest 
intendant,  forced  to  expose  his  accounts  to  generous 
and  confiding  masters,  could  not  have  had  a  face 
more  gloomy  or  more  anxious.  He  had,  moreover, 
put  his  one  arm  behind  his  back  in  a  manner  so  formal 
that  neither  of  the  two  men  who  entered  offered  him 
their  hands.  That  appearance  was  without  doubt 
little  in  keeping  with  what  the  father  and  the  fiance  of 
Fanny  had  expected;  for  there  was,  when  the  four 
men  were  seated,  a  pause  which  the  Baron  was  the 
first  to  break.  He  began  in  his  measured  tones,  in  a 
voice  which  handles  words  as  the  weight  of  a  usurer 
weighs  gold  pieces  to  the  milligramme: 

"Gentlemen,  I  believe  I  shall  express  our  common 
sentiment  in  first  of  all  establishing  a  point  which 
shall  govern  our  meeting.  .  .  .  We  are  here,  it  is 
understood,  to  bring  about  the  work  of  reconciliation 
between  two  men,  two  gentlemen  whom  we  know, 
whom  we  esteem — I  might  better  say,  whom  we  all 
love."  .  .  .  He  turned,  in  pronouncing  those  words, 
successively  to  each  of  his  three  listeners,  who  all 
bowed,  with  the  exception  of  the  Marquis.  Hafner 
examined  the  nobleman,  with  his  glance  accustomed  to 
read  the  depths  of  the  mind  in  order  to  divine  the 
intentions.  He  saw  that  Chapron's  first  witness  was 
a  Irouljlcsome  customer,  and  he  continued:  "That 
done,  1  beg  to  read  to  you  this  little  paper."  He 
drew  from  his  pocket  a  sheet  of  fokled  paper  and 
placed  upon  the  end  of  his  nose  his  famous  gold  lorg- 

[  220  ] 


COSMOPOLIS 

non:  "It  is  very  trifling,  one  of  those  directives,  as 
Monsieur  de  Moltke  says,  which  serve  to  guide  opera- 
tions, a  plan  of  action  which  we  will  modify  after 
discussion.  In  short,  it  is  a  landmark  that  we  may 
not  launch  into  space." 

"Pardon,  sir,"  interrupted  Montfanon,  whose  brows 
contracted  still  more  at  the  mention  of  the  celebrated 
field-marshal,  and,  stopping  by  a  gesture  the  reader, 
who,  in  his  surprise,  dropped  his  lorgnon  upon  the 
table  on  which  his  elbow  rested.  "I  regret  very 
much,"  he  continued,  "to  be  obliged  to  tell  you  that 
Monsieur  Dorsenne  and  I" — here  he  turned  to  Dor- 
senne,  who  made  an  equivocal  gesture  of  vexation— 
"can  not  admit  the  point  of  view  in  which  you  place 
yourself.  .  .  .  You  claim  that  we  are  here  to  arrange 
a  reconciliation.  That  is  possible.  ...  I  concede 
that  it  is  desirable.  .  .  .  But  I  know  nothing  of  it 
and,  permit  me  to  say,  you  do  not  know  any  more. 
I  am  here — we  are  here.  Monsieur  Dorsenne  and  I, 
to  listen  to  the  complaints  which  Count  Gorka  has 
commissioned  you  to  formulate  to  Monsieur  Florent 
Chapron's  proxies.  Formulate  those  complaints,  and 
we  will  discuss  them.  Formulate  the  reparation  you 
claim  in  the  name  of  your  client  and  we  will  discuss 
it.  The  papers  will  follow,  if  they  follow  at  all,  and, 
once  more,  neither  you  nor  we  know  what  will  be 
the  issue  of  this  conversation,  nor  should  we  know  it, 
before  establishing  the  facts." 

"There  is  some  misunderstanding,  sir,"  said  Ardea, 
whom  Montfanon's  words  had  irritated  somewhat. 
He  could  not,  any  more  than  Hafner,  understand  the 

[221] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

very  simple,  but  very  singular,  character  of  the  Mar- 
quis, and  he  added:  "I  have  been  concerned  in  sev- 
eral rencontres — four  times  as  second,  and  once  as 
principal — and  I  have  seen  employed  without  discus- 
sion the  proceeding  which  Baron  Hafner  has  just  pro- 
posed to  you,  and  which  of  itself  is,  perhaps,  only  a 
more  expeditious  means  of  arriving  at  what  you  very 
properly  call  the  establishment  of  facts." 

"I  was  not  aware  of  the  number  of  your  affairs, 
sir,"  repHed  Montfanon,  still  more  nervous  since  Haf- 
ner's  future  son-in-law  joined  in  the  conversation; 
"but  since  it  has  pleased  you  to  tell  us  I  will  take  the 
liberty  of  saying  to  you  that  I  have  fought  seven  times, 
and  that  I  have  been  a  second  fourteen.  ...  It  is 
true  that  it  was  at  an  epoch  when  the  head  of  your 
house  was  your  father,  if  I  remember  right,  the  de- 
ceased Prince  Urban,  whom  I  had  the  honor  of  know- 
ing when  I  served  in  the  zouaves.  He  was  a  fine 
Roman  nobleman,  and  did  honor  to  his  name.  What 
I  have  told  you  is  proof  that  I  have  some  competence 
in  the  matter  of  a  duel.  .  .  .Well,  we  have  always 
held  that  seconds  were  constituted  to  arrange  affairs 
that  could  be  arranged,  but  also  to  settle  affairs,  as 
well  as  they  can,  that  seem  incapable  of  being  arranged. 
Let  us  now  inquire  into  the  matter;  we  are  here  for 
that,  and  for  nothing  else." 

"Are  these  gentlemen  of  that  opinion?"  asked  Haf- 
ner in  a  conciliatory  voice,  turning  first  to  Dorsenne, 
then  to  Ardca:  "T  do  not  adhere  to  my  method,"  he 
continued,  again  folding  his  paper.  He  slipped  it 
into  his  vest-pocket  and  continued:   "Let  us  establish 

[  222  ] 


COSMOPOLIS 

the  facts,  as  you  say.  Count  Gorka,  our  friend,  con- 
siders himself  seriously,  very  seriously,  offended  by 
Monsieur  Florent  Chapron  in  the  course  of  the  dis- 
cussion in  a  public  street.  Monsieur  Chapron  was 
carried  away,  as  you  know,  sirs,  almost  to — what 
shall  I  say? — hastiness,  which,  however,  was  not  fol- 
lowed by  consequences,  thanks  to  the  presence  of 
mind  of  Monsieur  Gorka.  .  .  .  But,  accomplished  or 
not,  the  act  remains.  Monsieur  Gorka  was  insulted, 
and  he  requires  satisfaction.  ...  I  do  not  believe 
there  is  any  doubt  upon  that  point  which  is  the  cause 
of  the  affair,  or,  rather,  the  whole  affair." 

"I  again  ask  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Montfanon, 
dryly,  who  no  longer  took  pains  to  conceal  his  anger, 
"Monsieur  Dorsenne  and  I  can  not  accept  your  man- 
ner of  putting  the  question.  .  .  .  You  say  that  Mon- 
sieur Chapron's  hastiness  was  not  followed  by  con- 
sequences by  reason  of  Monsieur  Gorka's  presence 
of  mind.  We  claim  that  there  was  only  on  the  part 
of  Monsieur  Chapron  a  scarcely  indicated  gesture, 
which  he  himself  restrained.  In  consequence  you 
attribute  to  Monsieur  Gorka  the  quality  of  the  in- 
sulted party;  you  are  over- hasty.  He  is  merely  the 
plaintiff,  up  to  this  time.     It  is  very  different." 

''But  by  rights  he  is  the  insulted  party,"  interrupted 
Ardea.  "Restrained  or  not,  it  constitutes  a  threat  of 
assault.  I  did  not  wish  to  claim  to  be  a  duellist  by 
telling  you  of  my  engagements.  But  this  is  the  ABC 
of  the  codice  cavallcresco,  if  the  insult  be  followed  by 
an  assault,  he  who  receives  the  blow  is  the  offended 
party,  and  the  threat  of  an  assault  is  equivalent  to  an 

[223] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

actua'l  a'ssault.  The  offended  party  has  the  choice  of 
a  duel,  weapons  and  conditions.  Consult  your  authors 
and  ours:  Chateauvillars,  Du  Verger,  Angelini  and 
Gelli,  all  agree." 

"I  am  sorry  for  their  sakes, "  said  Montfanon,  and 
he  looked  at  the  Prince  with  a  contraction  of  the 
brows  almost  menacing,  "but  it  is  an  opinion  which 
does  not  hold  good  generally,  nor  in  this  particular 
case.  The  proof  is  that  a  duellist,  as  you  have  just 
said,"  his  voice  trembled  as  he  emphasized  the  inso- 
lence offered  by  the  other,  "a  bravo,  to  use  the  ex- 
pression of  your  country,  would  only  have  to  commit 
a  justifiable  murder  by  first  insulting  him  at  whom  he 
aims  with  rude  words.  The  insulted  person  replies 
by  a  voluntary  gesture,  on  the  signification  of  which 
one  may  be  mistaken,  and  you  will  admit  that  the 
bravo  is  the  offended  party,  and  that  he  has  the  choice 
of  weapons." 

"But,  Marquis,"  resumed  Hafncr,  with  evident  dis- 
gust, so  greatly  did  the  cavilling  and  the  ill-will  of 
the  nobleman  irritate  him,  "where  are  you  wandering 
to?  What  do  you  mean  by  bringing  up  chicanery  of 
this  sort?" 

"Chicanery!"  exclaimed  Montfanon,  half  rising. 

"Montfanon!"  besought  Dorsennc,  rising  in  his  turn 
and  forcing  the  tcrriljle  man  to  be  seated. 

"T  retract  the  word,"  said  the  Baron,  "if  it  has 
in.sulled  you.  Nothing  was  farther  from  my  thoughts. 
.  .  .  T  re])eat  that  I  ajjologize.  Marquis.  .  .  .  But, 
come,  tell  us  wliat  you  want  for  your  client,  that  is  very 
simple.  .  .  .  And  then  we  will  do  all  wc  can  to  make 

[224] 


COSMOPOLIS 

your  demands  agree  with  those  of  our  client.  ...  It 
is  a  trifling  matter  to  be  adjusted." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Montfanon,  with  insolent  severity, 
"it  is  justice  to  be  rendered,  which  is  very  different. 
What  we.  Monsieur  Dorsenne  and  I,  desire,"  he  con- 
tinued in  a  severe  voice,  "is  this:  Count  Gorka  has 
gravely  insulted  Monsieur  Chapron.  Let  me  finish," 
he  added  upon  a  simultaneous  gesture  on  the  part  of 
Ardea  and  of  Hafner.  "Yes,  sirs,  Monsieur  Chap- 
ron, known  to  us  all  for  his  perfect  courtesy,  must  have 
been  very  gravely  insulted,  even  to  make  the  improper 
gesture  of  which  you  just  spoke.  But  it  was  agreed 
upon  between  these  two  gentlemen,  for  reasons  of 
delicacy  which  we  had  to  accept — it  was  agreed,  I  say, 
that  the  nature  of  the  insult  offered  by  Monsieur 
Gorka  to  Monsieur  Chapron  should  not  be  divulged. 
.  .  .  Wc  have  the  right,  however,  and  I  may  add  the 
duty  devolves  upon  us,  to  measure  the  gravity  of  that 
insult  by  the  excess  of  anger  aroused  in  Monsieur 
Chapron.  ...  I  conclude  from  it  that,  to  be  just,  the 
plan  of  reconciliation,  if  we  draw  it  up,  should  contain 
reciprocal  concessions.  Count  Gorka  will  retract  his 
words  and  Monsieur  Chapron  apologize  for  his  hasti- 
ness." 

"It  is  impossible,"  exclaimed  the  Prince;  "Gorka 
will  never  accept  that." 

"You,  then,  wish  to  have  them  fight  the  duel?" 
groaned  Hafner. 

"And    why    not?"    said    Montfanon,    exasperated. 
"It  would  be  better  than  for  the  one  to  nurse  his  in- 
sults and  Ihc  other  his  blow." 
15  [225] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"Well,  sirs,"  replied  the  Baron,  rising  after  the 
silence  which  followed  that  imprudent  whim  of  a  man 
beside  himself,  "we  will  confer  again  with  our  client. 
If  you  wish,  we  will  resume  this  conversation  to-mor- 
row at  ten  o'clock,  say  here  or  in  any  place  convenient 
to  you.  .  .  .  You  will  excuse  me,  INIarquis.  Dorsenne 
has  no  doubt  told  you  under  what  circumstances — " 

"Yes,  he  has  told  me,"  interrupted  Montfanon, 
who  again  glanced  at  the  Prince,  and  in  a  manner  so 
mournful  that  the  latter  felt  himself  blush  beneath  the 
strange  glance,  at  which,  however,  it  was  impossible 
to  feel  angry.  Dorsenne  had  only  time  to  cut  short 
all  other  explanations  by  replying  to  Justus  Hafner 
himself. 

"Would  you  like  the  meeting  at  my  house?  We 
shall  have  more  chance  to  escape  remarks." 

"You  have  done  well  to  change  the  place,"  said 
Montfanon,  five  minutes  later,  on  entering  the  carriage 
with  his  young  friend. 

They  had  descended  the  staircase  without  speaking, 
for  the  brave  and  unreasonable  Marquis  regretted  his 
strangely  provoking  attitude  of  the  moment  before. 

"What  would  you  have?"  he  added.  "The  pro- 
faned palace,  the  insolent  luxury  of  that  thief,  the 
Prince  who  has  sold  his  family,  the  Baron  whose  part 
is  so  sinister.  I  could  no  longer  contain  myself! 
That  Baron,  above  all,  with  his  directives  !  Words  to 
repeat  when  one  is  German,  to  a  French  soldier  who 
fought  in  1870,  h'kf  those  words  of  Monsieur  de  Moltke,' 
His  terms,  too,  applied  to  honor  and  that  abominable 
politeness  in  which  there  is  servility  and   insolence! 

[226  J 


COSMOPOLIS 

.  .  .  Still,  I  am  not  satisfied  with  myself.  I  am  not 
at  all  satisfied." 

There  was  in  his  voice  so  much  good-nature,  such 
evident  remorse  at  not  having  controlled  himself  in  so 
grave  a  situation,  that  Dorscnne  pressed  his  hand  in- 
stead of  reproaching  him,  as  he  said: 

''It  will  do  to-morrow.  .  .  .  We  will  arrange  all; 
it  has  only  been  postponed." 

"You  say  that  to  console  me,"  said  the  Marquis, 
"but  I  know  it  was  very  badly  managed.  And  it  is 
my  fault!  Perhaps  we  shall  have  no  other  service  to 
render  our  brave  Chapron  than  to  arrange  a  duel  for 
him  under  the  most  dangerous  conditions.  Ah,  but  I 
became  inopportunely  angry!  .  .  .  But  why  the  deuce 
did  Gorka  select  such  a  second?  It  is  incompre- 
hensible! .  .  .  Did  you  see  what  the  cabalistic  word 
gentleman  means  to  those  rascals:  Steal,  cheat,  assas- 
sinate, but  have  carriages  perfectly  appointed,  a  mag- 
nificent mansion,  well-served  dinners,  and  fine  clothes! 
.  .  .  No,  I  have  suffered  too  much!  Ah,  it  is  not 
right;  and  on  what  a  day,  too?  God!  That  the  old 
man  might  die!"  ...  he  added,  in  a  voice  so  low 
that  his  companion  did  not  hear  his  words. 


[227] 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  LITTLE   RELATIVE   OF   lAGO 

'^HE  remorse  which  Montfanon  ex- 
pressed so  naively,  once  acknowledged 
to  himself,  increased  rapidly  in  the 
honest  man's  heart.  He  had  reason 
to  say  from  the  beginning  that  the 
affair  looked  bad.  A  quarrel,  to- 
gether with  assault,  or  an  attempt  at 
assault,  would  not  be  easily  set  right. 
It  required  a  diplomatic  miracle.  The  slightest  lack  of 
self-possession  on  the  part  of  the  seconds  is  equivalent 
to  a  catastrophe.  As  happens  in  such  circumstances, 
events  are  hurried,  and  the  pessimistic  anticipations  of 
the  irritable  Marquis  were  verified  almost  as  soon  as  he 
uttered  them.  Dorsenne  and  he  had  barely  left  the  Pa- 
lais Savorelli  when  Gorka  arrived.  The  energy  with 
which  he  rej)ulsed  the  proposition  of  an  arrangement 
which  would  admit  of  excuses  on  his  part,  served  pru- 
dent Hafner,  and  the  not  less  prudent  Ardea,  as  a  signal 
for  witlulrawal.  It  was  too  evident  to  the  two  men  that 
no  reconcih'ation  would  result  from  a  collision  of  such  a 
madman  with  a  personage  so  difficult  as  the  most  au- 
thorized of  Florent's  proxies  had  .shown  himself  to  be. 
Tin  y  then  asked  dorka  to  relieve  them  from  their 
duly.     'J'hey  had   loo  j)lausil)le  an  excu.se  in  Fanny's 

L228I 


COSMOPOLIS 

betrothal  for  Boleslas  to  refuse  to  release  them.  That 
retirement  was  a  second  catastrophe.  In  his  impa- 
tience to  find  other  seconds  who  would  be  firm,  Gorka 
hastened  to  the  Cercle  de  la  Chasse.  Chance  willed  that 
he  should  meet  with  two  of  his  comrades — a  Marquis 
Cibo,  Roman,  and  a  Prince  Pietrapertoso,  Neapolitan, 
who  were  assuredly  the  best  he  could  have  chosen  to 
hasten  the  simplest  affair  to  its  worst  consequences. 

Those  two  young  men  of  the  best  Italian  families, 
both  very  intelligent,  very  loyal  and  very  good,  belonged 
to  that  particular  class  which  is  to  be  met  with  in 
Vienna,  Madrid,  St.  Petersburg,  as  in  Milan  and  in 
Rome,  of  foreign  clubmen  hypnotized  by  Paris.  And 
what  a  Paris!  That  of  showy  and  noisy  fetes,  that 
which  passes  the  morning  in  practising  the  sports  in 
fashion,  the  afternoons  in  racing,  in  frequenting  fenc- 
ing-schools, the  evening  at  the  theatre  and  the  night 
at  the  gaming-table!  That  Paris  which  emigrates  by 
turns,  according  to  the  season,  to  Monte  Carlo  for  the 
Tir  mix  Pigeons,  to  Deauville  for  the  race  week,  to 
Aix-les-Bains  for  the  baccarat  season;  that  Paris  which 
has  its  own  customs,  its  own  language,  its  own  history, 
even  its  own  cosmopolitanism,  for  it  exercises  over  cer- 
tain minds,  throughout  Europe,  so  despotic  a  rule  that 
Cibo,  for  example,  and  his  friend  Pietrapertoso  never 
opened  a  French  journal  that  was  not  Parisian. 

They  sought  the  short  paragraphs  in  which  were  re- 
lated, in  detail,  the  doings  of  the  demi-monde,  the  last 
supper  given  by  some  well-known  viveur,  the  details  of 
some  large  party  in  such  and  such  a  fashionable  club, 
the  result  of  a  shooting  match,  or  of  a  fencing  match  be- 

[229] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

tween  celebrated  fencers!  There  were  between  them 
subjects  of  conversation  of  which  they  never  wearied; 
to  know  if  spirituelle  Gladys  Harvey  was  more  elegant 
than  Leona  d'Astri,  if  Machault  made  "counters"  as 
rapid  as  those  of  General  Garnier,  if  little  Lautrec 
would  adhere  or  would  not  adhere  to  the  game  he  was 
playing.  Imprisoned  in  Rome  by  the  scantiness  of 
their  means,  and  also  by  the  wishes,  the  one  of  his  un- 
cle, the  other  of  his  grandfather,  whose  heirs  they  were, 
their  entire  year  was  summed  up  in  the  months  which 
they  spent  at  Nice  in  the  winter,  and  in  the  trip  they 
took  to  Paris  at  the  time  of  the  Grand  Prix  for  six 
weeks.  Jealous  one  of  the  other,  with  the  most  comical 
rivalry,  of  the  least  occurrence  at  the  Cercle  des  Champs- 
Elysees  or  of  the  Rue  Royale  in  the  Eternal  City,  they 
affected,  in  the  presence  of  their  colleagues  of  la  chasse, 
the  impassive  manner  of  augurs  when  the  telegraph 
brought  them  the  news  of  some  Parisian  scandal.  That 
inoffensive  mania  which  had  made  of  stout,  ruddy  Cibo, 
and  of  thin,  pale  Pietrapertoso  two  delightful  studies 
for  Dorsenne  during  his  Roman  winter,  made  of  them 
terrible  proxies  in  the  service  of  Gorka's  vengeance. 
With  what  joy  and  what  gravity  they  accepted  that 
mission  all  those  who  have  studied  swordsmen  will 
understand  after  this  simple  sketch,  and  with  what 
promptness  they  presented  themselves  to  confer  at 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  with  their  client's  adver- 
sary! In  short,  at  half-past  twelve  the  duel  was  ar- 
ranged in  its  slightest  detail.  The  energy  employed  by 
Montfanon  had  only  ended  in  somewhat  tempering  the 
conditions — four  balls  to  be  exchanged  at  twenty-five 

[230] 


COSMOPOLIS 

paces  at  the  word  of  command.  The  duel  was  fixed  for 
the  following  morning,  in  the  inclosure  which  Cibo 
owned,  with  an  inn  adjoining,  not  very  far  distant  from 
the  classical  tomb  of  Ca.'cilia  Metella.  To  obtain  that 
distance  and  the  use  of  new  weapons  it  required  the 
prestige  with  which  the  Marquis  suddenly  clothed  him- 
self in  the  eyes  of  Gorka's  seconds  by  pronouncing  the 
name,  still  legendary  in  the  provinces  and  to  the  for- 
eigner, of  Gramont-Caderousse — Sic  transit  gloria 
mundi!  On  leaving  that  rendezvous  the  excellent  man 
really  had  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"It  is  my  fault,"  he  moaned,  "it  is  my  fault."  With 
that  Hafner  we  should  have  obtained  such  a  fine  official 
plan  by  mixing  in  a  little  of  ours.  He  offered  it  to 
us  himself.  .  .  .  Brave  Chapron!  It  is  I  who  have 
brought  him  into  this  dilemma!  ...  I  owe  it  to  him 
not  to  abandon  him,  but  to  follow  him  to  the  end.  .  .  . 
Here  I  shall  be  assisting  at  a  duel,  at  my  age!  .  .  .  Did 
you  see  how  those  young  snobs  lowered  their  voices 
when  I  mentioned  my  encounter  with  poor  Cade- 
rousse?  .  .  .  Fifty-two  years  and  a  month,  and  not  to 
know  yet  how  to  conduct  one's  self !  Let  us  go  to  the  Rue 
Leopardi.  I  wish  to  ask  pardon  of  our  client,  and  to 
give  him  some  advice.  We  will  take  him  to  one  of  my 
old  friends  who  has  a  garden  near  the  Villa  Pamphili, 
very  secluded.  W^e  will  spend  the  rest  of  the  afternoon 
practising.  ...  Ah!  Accursed  choler!  Yes,  it  would 
have  been  so  simple  to  accept  the  other's  plan  yes- 
terday. By  the  exchange  of  two  or  three  words,  I  am 
sure  it  could  have  been  arranged." 

"Console  yourself,  Marquis,"  replied  Florent,  when 

[231] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

the  unhappy  nobleman  had  described  to  him  the  de- 
plorable result  of  his  negotiations.  "I  like  that  better. 
Monsieur  Gorka  needs  correction.  I  have  only  one  re- 
gret, that  of  not  having  given  it  to  him  more  thor- 
oughly. .  .  .  Since  I  shall  have  to  fight  a  duel,  I  would 
at  least  have  had  my  money's  worth!" 

"And  you  have  never  used  a  pistol?"  asked  Mont- 
fanon. 

"Bah!  I  have  hunted  a  great  deal  and  I  believe  I 
can  shoot." 

"That  is  Hke  night  and  day,"  interrupted  the  Mar- 
quis. "Hold  yourself  in  readiness.  i\t  three  o'clock 
come  for  me  and  I  will  give  you  a  lesson.  And  remem- 
ber there  is  a  merciful  God  for  the  brave!" 

Although  Florent  deserved  praise  for  the  cheerfulness 
of  which  his  reply  was  proof,  the  first  moments  which  he 
spent  alone  after  the  departure  of  his  two  witnesses  were* 
very  painful. 

That  which  Chapron  experienced  during  those  few 
moments  was  simply  very  natural  an.xiety,  the  enerva- 
tion caused  by  looking  at  the  clock,  and  saying: 

"In  twenty-four  hours  the  hand  will  be  on  this 
point  of  the  dial.  And  shall  T  still  be  living?"  ...  He 
was,  however,  manly,  and  knew  how  to  control  him- 
self. He  struggled  against  the  feeling  of  weakness, 
and,  while  awaiting  the  time  to  rejoin  his  friends,  he 
resolved  to  write  his  last  wishes.  For  years  his  inten- 
tion had  Ix'cn  to  leave  his  entire  fortune  to  his  brother- 
in-law.  He,  therefore,  made  a  rough  draft  of  his  will 
in  that  sense,  with  a  pen  at  first  ratlier  unsteady,  then 
quite  firm.    His  will  completed,  he  had  courage  enough 

[232] 


COSMOPOLIS 

to  write  two  letters,  addressed  the  one  to  that  brother- 
in-law,  the  other  to  his  sister.  When  he  had  finished 
his  work  the  hands  of  the  clock  pointed  to  ten  minutes 
of  three. 

"Still  seventeen  hours  and  a  half  to  wait,"  said  he, 
"but  I  think  I  have  conquered  my  nerves.  A  short 
walk,  too,  will  benefit  me." 

So  he  decided  to  go  on  foot  to  the  rendezvous  named 
by  Montfanon.  He  carefully  locked  the  three  envel- 
opes in  the  drawer  of  his  desk.  He  saw,  on  passing, 
that  Lincoln  was  not  in  his  studio.  He  asked  the  foot- 
man if  Madame  Maitland  was  at  home.  The  reply 
received  was  that  she  was  dressing,  and  that  she  had 
ordered  her  carriage  for  three  o'clock. 

"Good,"  said  he,  "neither  of  them  will  have  the 
slightest  suspicion;  I  am  saved." 

How  astonished  he  would  have  been  could  he,  while 
walking  leisurely  toward  his  destination,  have  returned 
in  thought  to  the  smoking-room  he  had  just  left!  He 
would  have  seen  a  woman  glide  noiselessly  through  the 
open  door,  with  the  precaution  of  a  malefactor!  He 
would  have  seen  her  examine,  without  disarranging,  all 
the  papers  on  the  table.  She  frowned  on  seeing  Dor- 
senne's  and  the  Marquis's  cards.  She  took  from  the 
blotting-case  some  loose  leaves  and  held  them  in  front  of 
the  glass,  trying  to  read  there  the  imprint  left  upon  them. 
He  would  have  seen  'finally  the  woman  draw  from  her 
pocket  a  bunch  of  keys.  She  inserted  one  of  them  in 
the  lock  of  the  drawer  which  Florent  had  so  carefully 
turned,  and  took  from  that  drawer  the  three  unsealed 
envelopes  he  had  placed  within  it.     And  the  woman 

[233] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

who  thus  read,  with  a  face  contracted  by  anguish, 
the  papers  discovered  in  such  a  manner,  thanks  to  a 
ruse  the  abominable  indehcacy  of  which  gave  proof  of 
shameful  habits  of  espionage,  was  his  own  sister,  the 
Lydia  whom  he  believed  so  gentle  and  so  simple,  to 
whom  he  had  penned  an  adieu  so  tender  in  case  he 
should  be  killed — the  Lydia  who  would  have  terrified 
him  had  he  seen  her  thus,  with  passion  distorting  the 
face  which  was  considered  insignificant!  She  herself, 
the  audacious  spy,  trembled  as  if  she  would  fall,  her 
eyes  dilated,  her  bosom  heaved,  her  teeth  chattered,  so 
greatly  was  she  unnerved  by  what  she  had  discovered, 
by  the  terrible  consequences  which  she  had  brought 
about. 

Had  she  not  written  the  anonymous  letters  to  Gorka, 
denouncing  to  him  the  intrigue  between  Maitland  and 
Madame  Steno?  Was  it  not  she  who  had  chosen,  the 
better  to  poison  those  terrible  letters,  phrases  the  most 
likely  to  strike  the  betrayed  lover  in  the  most  sensitive 
part  of  his  amour  propre?  Was  it  not  she  who  had 
hastened  the  return  of  the  jealous  man  with  the  certain 
hope  of  drawing  thus  a  tragical  vengeance  upon  the 
hated  heads  of  her  husband  and  llie  Venetian  ?  That 
vengeance,  indeed,  had  jjroken.  lUit  upon  whom? 
U[)on  the  only  person  Lydia  loved  in  the  world,  upon 
the  brother  whom  she  saw  endangered  through  her 
fault;  and  that  thought  was  to  her  so  overwhehning  that 
she  sank  into  the  armchair  in  wliii  h  Morenl  had  been 
seated  fifteen  minutes  before,  repeating,  with  an  accent 
of  desj)air:  "He  is  going  to  figlit  a  dud.  Tic  is  going  to 
fight  instead  of  the  other!" 

I  234] 


COSMOPOLIS 

All  the  moral  history  of  that  obscure  and  violent  soul 
was  summed  up  in  the  cry  in  which  passionate  anxiety 
for  her  brother  was  coupled  with  a  fierce  hatred  of  her 
husband.  That  hatred  was  the  result  of  a  youth  and  a 
childhood  without  the  story  of  which  a  du[)licity  so 
criminal  in  a  being  so  young  would  be  unintelligible. 
That  youth  and  that  childhood  had  presaged  what 
Lydia  would  one  day  be.  But  who  was  there  to  train  the 
nature  in  which  the  heredity  of  an  oppressed  race  mani- 
fested itself,  as  has  been  already  remarked,  by  the  two 
most  detestable  characteristics — hypocrisy  and  per- 
fidy? Who,  moreover,  observes  in  children  the  truth, 
as  much  neglected  in  practise  as  it  is  common  in  the- 
ory, that  the  defects  of  the  tenth  year  become  vices  in 
the  thirtieth?  When  quite  a  child  Lydia  invented 
falsehoods  as  naturally  as  her  brother  spoke  the  truth. 
.  .  .  Whosoever  observed  her  would  have  perceived 
that  those  lies  were  all  told  to  paint  herself  in  a  favor- 
able light.  The  germ,  too,  of  another  defect  was 
springing  up  within  her — a  jealousy  instinctive,  irra- 
tional, almost  wicked.  She  could  not  see  a  new  play- 
thing in  Florent's  hands  without  sulking  immediately. 
She  could  not  bear  to  see  her  brother  embrace  her 
father  without  casting  herself  between  them,  nor  could 
she  see  him  amuse  himself  with  other  comrades. 

Had  Napoleon  Chapron  been  interested  in  the  study 
of  character  as  deeply  as  he  was  in  his  cotton  and  his 
sugar-cane,  he  would  have  perceived,  with  affright,  the 
early  traces  of  a  sinful  nature.  But,  on  that  point,  like 
his  son,  he  was  one  of  those  trustful  men  wlio  did  not 
judge  when  they  loved.    Moreover,  Lydia  and  Florent, 

[235] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

to  his  wounded  sensibility  of  a  demi-pariah,  formed  the 
only  pleasant  corner  in  his  life — were  the  fresh  and 
youthful  comforters  of  his  widowerhood  and  of  his  mis- 
anthropy. He  cherished  them  with  the  idolatry  which 
all  great  workers  entertain  for  their  children,  which  is 
one  of  the  most  dangerous  forms  of  paternal  tender- 
ness; Lydia's  incipient  vices  were  to  the  planter  de- 
lightful fancies !  Did  she  He  ?  The  excellent  man  ex- 
claimed: What  an  imagination  she  has!  Was  she  jeal- 
ous? He  would  sigh,  pressing  to  his  broad  breast  the 
tiny  form:  How  sensitive  she  is!  ...  The  result  of 
that  selfish  blindness — for  to  love  children  thus  is  to  love 
them  for  one's  self  and  not  for  them — was  that  the  girl, 
at  the  time  of  her  entrance  at  Roehampton,  was  spoiled 
in  the  essential  traits  of  her  character.  But  she  was  so 
pretty,  she  owed  to  the  singular  mixture  of  three  races 
an  originality  of  grace  so  seductive  that  only  the  keen 
glance  of  a  governess  of  genius  could  have  discerned, 
beneath  that  exquisite  exterior,  the  already  marked 
lines  of  her  character.  Such  governesses  are  rare,  still 
more  so  at  convents  than  elsewhere.  There  was  none 
at  Roehampton  when  Lydia  entered  that  pious  haven 
which  was  to  prove  fatal  to  her,  for  a  reason  precisely 
contrary  to  that  which  transformed  for  Florcnt  the 
lawns  of  peaceful  Beaumont  into  a  radiant  paradise  of 
friendship. 

Among  the  pupils  with  whom  Lydia  was  to  be 
educated  were  four  young  girls  from  Philadelphia, 
older  than  the  newcomer  by  two  years,  and  who,  also, 
had  left  America  for  the  first  time.  They  brought  with 
them  the  unconquerable  aversion  to  negro  blood  and 

[  236  ] 


COSMOPOLIS 

that  wonderful  keenness  in  discovering  it,  even  in  the 
most  infinitesimal  degree,  which  distinguishes  real 
Yankees.  Little  Lydia  Chapron,  having  been  entered 
as  French,  they  at  first  hesitated  in  the  face  of  a  sus- 
picion speedily  converted  into  a  certainty  and  that  cer- 
tainty into  an  aversion,  which  they  could  not  conceal. 
They  would  not  have  been  children  had  they  not  been 
unfeeling.  They,  therefore,  began  to  offer  poor  Lydia 
petty  affronts.  Convents  and  colleges  resemble  other 
society.  There,  too,  unjust  contempt  is  like  that 
"ferret  of  the  woods,"  which  runs  from  hand  to  hand 
and  which  always  returns  to  its  point  of  setting  out. 
All  the  scornful  are  themselves  scorned  by  some  one — 
a  merited  punishment,  which  does  not  correct  our 
pride  any  more  than  the  other  punishments  which 
abound  in  life  cure  our  other  faults.  Lydia's  persecu- 
tors were  themselves  the  objects  of  outrages  practised 
by  their  comrades  born  in  England,  on  account  of  cer- 
tain peculiarities  in  their  language  and  for  the  nasal 
quality  of  their  voices.  The  drama  was  limited,  as  we 
can  imagine,  to  a  series  of  insignificant  episodes  and  of 
which  the  superintendents  only  surprised  a  demi-echo. 
Children  nurse  passions  as  strong  as  ours,  but  so 
much  interrupted  by  playfulness  that  it  is  impossible 
to  measure  their  exact  strength.  Lydia's  amour  pro  pre 
was  wounded  in  an  incurable  manner  by  that  revela- 
tion of  her  own  peculiarity.  Certain  incidents  of  her 
American  life  recurred  to  her,  which  she  compre- 
hended more  clearly.  She  recalled  the  portrait  of  her 
grandmother,  the  complexion,  the  hands,  the  hair  of 
her  father,  and  she  experienced  that  shame  of  her  birth 

[  237  ] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

and  of  her  family  much  more  common  with  children 
than  our  optimism  imagines.  Parents  of  humble  origin 
give  their  sons  a  liberal  education,  expose  them  to  the 
demoralization  which  it  brings  with  it  in  their  positions, 
and  what  social  hatreds  date  from  the  moment  when 
the  boy  of  twelve  blushes  in  secret  at  the  condition  of 
his  relatives!  With  Lydia,  so  instinctively  jealous  and 
untruthful,  those  first  wounds  induced  falsehood  and 
jealousy.  The  slightest  superiority  even,  noticed  in 
one  of  her  companions,  became  to  her  a  cause  for  suffer- 
ing, and  she  undertook  to  compensate  by  personal 
triumphs  the  difference  of  blood,  which,  once  discov- 
ered, wounds  a  vain  nature.  In  order  to  assure  her- 
self those  triumphs  she  tried  to  win  all  the  persons 
who  approached  her,  mistresses  and  comrades,  and 
she  began  to  practise  that  continued  comedy  of  atti- 
tude and  of  sentiment  to  which  the  fatal  desire  to 
please,  so  quickly  leads — that  charming  and  dangerous 
tendency  which  borders  much  less  on  goodness  than 
falseness.  At  eighteen,  submitted  to  a  sort  of  contin- 
ual cabotinagc,  Lydia  was,  beneath  the  most  attractive 
exterior,  a  being  profoundly,  though  unconsciously, 
wicked,  capable  of  very  little  affection — she  loved  no 
one  truly  but  her  brother  -open  to  the  invasion  of  the 
passions  of  hatred  which  are  the  natural  products  of 
proud  and  false  minds.  It  was  one  of  these  passions, 
the  most  fatal  of  all,  which  marriage  was  to  develop 
williiii  her     nii'V. 

That  hideous  vice,  one  of  those  which  govern  the 
world,  has  been  so  little  studied  by  moralists,  as  all  too 
dishonorable  for  the  heart  of  man,  no  doubt,  that  this 

[238] 


COSMOPOLIS 

statement  may  appear  improbable.  Madame  Mait- 
land,  for  years,  had  been  envious  of  her  husband,  but 
envious  as  one  of  the  rivals  of  an  artist  would  be, 
envious  as  one  pretty  woman  is  of  another,  as  one 
banker  is  of  his  opponent,  as  a  politician  of  his  adver- 
sary, with  the  fierce,  implacable  envy  which  writhes 
with  physical  pain  in  the  face  of  success,  which  is 
transported  with  a  sensual  joy  in  the  face  of  disaster. 
It  is  a  great  mistake  to  limit  the  ravages  of  that  guilty 
passion  to  the  domain  of  professional  emulation. 
When  it  is  deep,  it  docs  not  alone  attack  the  qualities 
of  the  person,  but  the  person  himself,  and  it  was  thus 
that  Lydia  envied  Lincoln.  Perhaps  the  analysis  of 
this  sentiment,  very  subtle  in  its  ugliness,  will  explain 
to  some  a  few  of  the  antipathies  against  which  they 
have  struck  in  their  relatives.  For  it  is  not  only  be- 
tween husband  and  wife  that  these  unavowcd  envies 
are  met,  it  is  between  lover  and  mistress,  friend  and 
friend,  brother  and  brother,  sometimes,  alas,  father 
and  son,  mother  and  daughter!  Lydia  had  married 
Lincoln  Maitland  partly  out  of  obedience  to  her 
brother's  wishes,  partly  from  vanity,  because  the 
young  man  was  an  American,  and  because  it  was  a 
sort  of  victory  over  the  prejudices  of  race,  of  which 
she  thought  constantly,  but  of  which  she  never  spoke. 
It  required  only  three  months  of  married  life  to  per- 
ceive that  Maitland  could  not  forgive  himself  for  that 
marriage.  Although  he  affected  to  scorn  his  compat- 
riots, and  although  at  heart  he  did  not  share  any  of  the 
views  of  the  country  in  which  he  had  not  set  foot  since 
his  fifth  year,  he  could  not  hear  remarks  made  in  New 

[239] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

York  upon  that  marriage  without  a  pang.  He  dishked 
Lydia  for  the  humihation,  and  she  felt  it.  The  birth 
of  a  child  would  no  doubt  have  modified  that  feeling, 
and,  if  it  would  not  have  removed  it,  would  at  least 
have  softened  the  embittered  heart  of  the  young  wife. 
But  no  child  was  born  to  them.  They  had  not  returned 
from  their  wedding  tour,  upon  which  Florent  accom- 
panied them,  before  their  lives  rolled  along  in  that 
silence  which  forms  the  base  of  all  those  households 
in  which  husband  and  wife,  according  to  a  simple  and 
grand  expression  of  the  people,  do  not  live  heart  against 
heart. 

After  the  journey  through  Spain,  which  should  have 
been  one  continued  enchantment,  the  wife  became 
jealous  of  the  evident  preference  which  Florent  showed 
for  Maitland.  For  the  first  time  she  perceived  the 
hold  which  that  impassioned  friendship  had  taken  upon 
her  brother's  heart.  He  loved  her,  too,  but  with  a 
secondary  love.  The  comparison  annoyed  her  daily, 
hourly,  and  it  did  not  fail  to  become  a  real  wound. 
Returned  to  Paris,  where  they  spent  almost  three 
years,  that  wound  was  increased  by  the  sole  fact  that 
the  puissant  individuality  of  the  painter  speedily  rele- 
gated lo  the  shade  the  individuality  of  his  wife,  simply, 
almost  mechanically,  like  a  large  tree  which  pushes 
a  smaller  one  into  the  background.  The  composite 
society  of  artists,  amateurs,  and  writers  who  visited 
Lincoln  came  there  only  for  him.  The  house  they 
had  rented  was  rented  only  for  him.  The  journeys 
they  made  were  for  hini.  In  short,  Lydia  was  borne 
away,  like  Florent,  in  the  orl)it  of  the  most  despotic. 

[240] 


COSMOPOLIS 

force  in  the  world — that  of  a  celebrated  talent.  An 
entire  book  would  be  required  to  paint  in  their  daily 
truth  the  continued  humiliations  which  brought  the 
young  wife  to  detest  that  talent  and  that  celebrity 
with  as  much  ardor  as  Florent  worshipped  them.  She 
remained,  however,  an  honest  woman,  in  the  sense  in 
which  the  word  is  construed  by  the  world,  which  sums 
up  woman's  entire  dishonor  in  errors  of  love. 

But  within  Lydia's  breast  grew  a  rooted  aversion 
toward  Lincoln.  She  detested  him  for  the  pure  blood 
which  made  of  that  large,  fair,  and  robust  man  so  ad- 
mirable a  type  of  Anglo-Saxon  beauty,  by  the  side  of 
her,  so  thin,  so  insignificant  indeed,  in  spite  of  the 
grace  of  her  pretty,  dark  face.  She  detested  him  for 
his  taste,  for  the  original  elegance  with  which  he  under- 
stood how  to  adorn  the  places  in  which  he  lived,  while 
she  maintained  within  her  a  barbarous  lack  of  taste  for 
the  least  arrangement  of  materials  and  of  colors.  When 
she  was  forced  to  acknowledge  progress  in  the  painter, 
bitter  hatred  entered  her  heart.  When  he  lamented 
over  his  work,  and  when  she  saw  him  a  prey  to  the 
dolorous  anxiety  of  an  artist  who  doubts  himself,  she 
experienced  a  profound  joy,  marred  only  by  the  evident 
sadness  into  which  Lincoln's  struggles  plunged  Florent. 
Never  had  she  met  the  eyes  of  Chapron  fixed  upon 
Maitland  with  that  look  of  a  faithful  dog  which  re- 
joices in  the  joy  of  its  master,  or  which  suffers  in  his 
sadness,  without  enduring,  like  Alba  Steno,  the  sensa- 
tion of  a  "needle  in  the  heart." 

The  idolatrous  worship  of  her  brother  for  the  painter 
caused  her  to  suffer  still  more  as  she  comprehended, 
i6  [  241  ] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

with  the  infalHble  perspicacity  of  antipathy,  the  im- 
mense dupery.  She  read  the  very  depths  of  the  souls 
of  the  two  old  comrades  of  Beaumont.  She  knew  that 
in  that  friendship,  as  is  almost  always  the  case,  one 
alone  gave  all  to  receive  in  exchange  only  the  most 
brutal  recognition,  that  with  which  a  huntsman  or  a 
master  gratifies  a  faithful  dog!  As  for  enlightening 
Florent  with  regard  to  Lincoln's  character,  she  had 
vainly  tried  to  do  so  by  those  fine  and  perfidious  insin- 
uations in  which  women  excel.  She  only  recognized 
her  impotence,  and  myriads  of  hateful  impressions 
were  thus  accumulated  in  her  heart,  to  be  summed  up 
in  one  of  those  frenzies  of  taciturn  rancor  which  bursts 
on  the  first  opportunity  with  terrifying  energy.  Crime 
itself  has  its  laws  of  development.  Between  the  pretty 
little  girl  who  wept  on  seeing  a  new  toy  in  her  brother's 
hand  and  the  Lydia  Maitland,  forcer  of  locks,  author 
of  anonymous  letters,  driven  by  the  thirst  for  vengeance, 
even  to  villainy,  no  dramatic  revolution  of  character 
had  taken  place.  The  logical  succession  of  days  had 
sufilced. 

I'he  occasion  to  gratify  that  dee[)  and  mortal  long- 
ing to  touch  Lincoln  on  some  point  truly  sensitive, 
how  often  Lydia  had  souglU  it  in  vain,  l)cfore  Madame 
Stcno  obtained  an  ascendancy  over  the  painter.  She 
had  been  reduced  by  it  to  those  meannesses  of  feminine 
animosity  to  manage,  as  if  accidentally,  that  her  hus- 
band miglit  read  all  the  disagreeable  articles  written 
about  his  paintings,  innocently  to  praise  before  him 
the  rivals  who  had  given  him  offense,  to  repeat  to  him 
with  an  air  of  embarrassment  the  slightest  criticisms 

[242] 


COSMOPOLIS 

pronounced  on  one  of  his  exhibits — all  the  unpleasant- 
nesses which  had  the  result  of  irritating  Florent,  above 
all,  for  Maitland  was  one  of  those  artists  too  well  satis- 
fied with  the  results  of  his  own  work  for  the  opinion  of 
others  to  annoy  him  very  much.  On  the  other  hand, 
before  the  passion  for  the  dogarcssc  had  possessed  him, 
he  had  never  loved.  Many  painters  are  thus,  satisfying 
with  magnificent  models  an  impetuosity  of  tempera- 
ment which  does  not  mount  from  the  senses  to  the 
heart.  Accustomed  to  regard  the  human  form  from 
a  certain  point,  they  find  in  beauty,  vrhich  would  ap- 
pear to  us  simply  animal,  principles  of  plastic  emotion 
which  at  times  suffice  for  their  amorous  requirements. 
They  are  only  more  deeply  touched  by  it,  when  to  that 
rather  coarse  intoxication  is  joined,  in  the  woman  who 
inspires  them,  the  refined  graces  of  mind,  the  delicacy 
of  elegance  and  the  subtleties  of  sentiment. 

Such  was  Madame  Steno,  who  at  once  inspired  the 
painter  with  a  passion  as  complete  as  a  first  love.  It 
was  really  such.  The  Countess,  who  was  possessed 
of  the  penetration  of  voluptuousness,  was  not  mistaken 
there.  Lydia,  who  was  possessed  of  the  penetration  of 
hatred,  was  not  mistaken  either.  She  knew  from  the 
first  day  how  matters  stood  in  the  beginning,  because 
she  was  as  observing  as  she  was  dissimulating;  then, 
thanks  to  means  less  hypothetic,  she  had  always  had 
the  habit  of  making  those  abominable  inquiries  which 
are  natural,  we  venture  to  avow,  to  nine  women  out  of 
ten!  And  how  many  men  are  women,  too,  on  this 
point,  as  said  the  fabulist.  At  school  Lydia  was  one 
of  those  who  ascended  to  tlie  dormitory,  or  who  re- 

[  243  ] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

entered  the  study  to  rummage  in  the  cupboards  and  open 
trunks  of  her  companions.  When  mature,  never  had 
a  sealed  letter  passed  through  her  hands  without  her 
having  ingeniously  managed  to  read  through  the 
envelope,  or  at  least  to  guess  from  the  postmark,  the 
seal,  the  handwriting  of  the  address,  who  was  the 
author  of  it.  The  instinct  of  curiosity  was  so  strong 
that  she  could  not  refrain,  at  a  telegraph  office,  from 
glancing  over  the  shoulders  of  the  persons  before  her, 
to  learn  the  contents  of  their  despatches.  She  never 
had  her  hair  dressed  or  made  her  toilette  without  mi- 
nutely questioning  her  maid  as  to  the  goings-on  in  the 
pantry  and  the  antechamber.  It  was  through  a  story 
of  that  kind  that  she  learned  the  altercation  between 
Florent  and  Gorka  in  the  vestibule,  which  proves,  be- 
tween parentheses,  that  these  espionages  by  the  aid  of 
servants  are  often  efficacious.  But  they  reveal  a  native 
baseness,  which  will  not  recoil  before  any  piece  of  vil- 
lainy. 

When  Madame  Maitland  suspected  the  liaison  of 
Madame  Steno  and  her  husband,  she  no  more  hesitated 
to  open  the  latter's  secretary  than  she  later  hesitated  to 
open  the  desk  of  her  brother.  The  correspondence 
which  she  read  in  that  way  was  of  a  nature  which  ex- 
asperated her  desire  for  vengeance  almost  to  frenzy. 
For  not  only  did  she  acquire  the  evidence  of  a  happi- 
ness shared  by  them  which  humiliated  in  her  the  woman 
barren  in  all  senses  of  the  word,  a  stranger  to  voluptu- 
ousness as  well  as  to  maternity,  but  she  gathered  from 
it  numerous  proofs  that  the  Countess  cherished,  with 
regard  to  her,  a  scorn  of  race  as  absolute  as  if  Venice 

[244] 


COSMOPOLIS 

had  been  a  city  of  the  United  States.  .  .  .  That  part 
of  the  Adriatic  abounds  in  prejudices  of  blood,  as  do 
all  countries  which  serve  as  confluents  for  every  nation. 
It  is  sufficient  to  convince  one's  self  of  it,  to  have  heard 
a  Venetian  treat  of  the  Slavs  as  Cziavoni,  and  the 
Levantines  as  Gregugni. 

Madame  Steno,  in  those  letters  she  had  written  with 
all  the  familiarity  and  all  the  liberty  of  passion,  never 
called  Lydia  anything  but  La  Morettina,  and  by  a  very 
strange  illogicalness  never  was  the  name  of  the  brother 
of  La  Morettina  mentioned  without  a  formula  of  friend- 
ship. As  the  mistress  treated  Florent  in  that  manner, 
it  must  be  that  she  apprehended  no  hostility  on  the 
part  of  her  lover's  brother-in-law.  Lydia  understood 
it  only  too  well,  as  well  as  the  fresh  proof  of  Florent 's 
sentiments  for  Lincoln.  Once  more  he  gave  prece- 
dence to  the  friend  over  the  sister,  and  on  what  an  oc- 
casion! The  most  secret  wounds  in  her  inmost  being 
bled  as  she  read.  The  success  of  Alba's  portrait, 
which  promised  to  be  a  masterpiece,  ended  by  precip- 
itating her  into  a  fierce  and  abominable  action.  She 
resolved  to  denounce  Madame  Steno's  new  love  to  the 
betrayed  lover,  and  she  wrote  the  twelve  letters,  wisely 
calculated  and  graduated,  which  had  indeed  determined 
Gorka's  return.  His  return  had  even  been  delayed  too 
long  to  suit  the  relative  of  lago,  who  had  decided  to  aim 
at  Madame  Steno  through  Alba  by  a  still  more  criminal 
denunciation.  Lydia  was  in  that  state  of  exasperation 
in  which  the  vilest  weapons  seem  the  best,  and  she  in- 
cluded innocent  Alba  in  her  hatred  for  Maitland,  on 
account  of  the  portrait,  a  turn  of  sentiment  which  will 

[245] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

show  that  it  was  envy  by  which  that  soul  was  poisoned 
above  all.  Ah,  what  bitter  delight  the  simultaneous 
success  of  that  double  infamy  had  procured  for  her! 
What  savage  joy,  mingled  with  bitterness  and  ecstacy, 
had  been  hers  the  day  before,  on  witnessing  the  nervous- 
ness of  poor  Alba  and  the  suppressed  fury  of  Boleslas! 

In  her  mind  she  had  seen  Maitland  provoked  by 
the  rival  whom  she  knew  to  be  as  adroit  with  the 
sword  as  with  the  pistol.  She  would  not  have  been  the 
great-grandchild  of  a  slave  of  Louisiana,  if  she  had  not 
combined  with  the  natural  energy  of  her  hatreds  a  con- 
siderable amount  of  superstition.  A  fortune-teller  had 
once  foretold,  from  the  lines  in  her  palm,  that  she 
would  cause  the  violent  death  of  some  person.  "It 
will  be  he,"  she  had  thought,  glancing  at  her  husband 
with  a  horrible  tremor  of  hope.  .  .  .  And  now  she  had 
the  proof,  the  indisputable  proof,  tliat  her  plot  for  ven- 
geance was  to  terminate  in  tlie  danger  of  another.  Of 
what  other? 

The  letter  and  will  made  by  Florent  disclosed  to  her 
the  threat  of  a  fatal  duel  suspended  over  the  head 
which  was  the  dearest  to  her.  So  she  had  driven  to  a 
tragical  encounter  the  only  being  whom  she  loved.  .  .  . 
The  disappointment  of  the  heart  in  which  palpitated 
the  wild  energies  of  a  bestial  atavism  was  so  sudden, 
so  acute,  so  dolorous,  that  she  uttered  an  inarticulate 
cry,  leaning  upon  her  brother's  desk,  and,  in  the  face 
of  those  sheets  of  paper  wliich  had  revealed  so  much, 
she  repeated: 

"He  is  going  to  fight  a  dud!  lie!  .  .  .  And  T  am 
the  cause!"  .   .   .  Then,   ntuniiii!^  ihc  letters  and   the 

[.  24(>  I 


COSMOPOLIS 

will  to  the  drawer,  she  closed  it  and  rose,  saying  aloud: 
*'No.  It  shall  not  be.  I  will  prevent  it,  if  I  have  to 
cast  myself  between  them.  I  do  nc^t  wish  it !  I  do  not 
wish  it!" 

It  was  easy  to  utter  such  words.  But  the  execution 
of  them  was  less  easy.  Lydia  knew  it,  for  she  had  no 
sooner  uttered  that  vow  than  she  wrung  her  hands  in 
despair — those  weak  hands  which  Madame  Steno  com- 
pared in  one  of  her  letters  to  the  paws  of  a  monkey, 
the  fingers  were  so  supple  and  so  long — and  she  uttered 
this  despairing  cry:  ''But  how?"  .  .  .  which  so  many 
criminals  have  uttered  before  the  issue,  unexpected 
and  fatal  to  them,  of  their  shrewdest  calculations.  The 
poet  has  sung  it  in  the  words  which  relate  the  story  of 
all  our  faults,  great  and  small: 

"The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices 
Make  instruments  to  plague  us." 

{Les  Dieiix  sonl  justcs,  et  dcs  vices  oil  nous  nous 
plaisons,  Us  font  des  oiitils  a  nous  torturer.)  ...  It  is 
necessary  that  the  belief  in  the  equity  of  an  incompre- 
hensible judge  be  well  grounded  in  us,  for  the  strongest 
minds  are  struck  by  a  sinister  apprehension  when  they 
have  to  brave  the  chance  of  a  misfortune  absolutely 
merited.  The  remembrance  of  the  soothsayer's  predic- 
tion suddenly  occurred  to  Lydia.  She  uttered  another 
cry,  rubbing  her  hands  like  a  somnambulist.  She  saw 
her  brother's  blood  flowing.  .  .  .  No,  the  duel  should 
not  take  place !  But  how  to  prevent  it  ?  How — how  ? 
she  repeated.  Florent  was  not  at  home.  She  could, 
therefore,  not  implore  him.     If  he  should  return,  would 

I  247] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

there  still  be  time  ?  Lincoln  was  not  at  home.  Where 
was  he  ?  Perhaps  at  a  rendezvous  with  Madame  Steno. 
The  image  of  that  handsome  idol  of  love  clasped  in 
the  painter's  arms,  plunged  in  the  abyss  of  intoxica- 
tion which  her  ardent  letters  described,  was  presented 
to  the  mind  of  the  jealous  wife.  What  irony  to  per- 
ceive thus  those  two  lovers,  whom  she  had  wished  to 
strike,  with  the  ecstacy  of  bliss  in  their  eyes!  Lydia 
would  have  liked  to  tear  out  their  eyes,  his  as  well 
as  hers,  and  to  trample  them  beneath  her  heel.  A 
fresh  flood  of  hatred  filled  her  heart.  God!  how  she 
hated  them,  and  with  what  a  powerless  hatred!  But 
her  time  would  come;  another  need  pressed  sorely — 
to  prevent  the  meeting  of  the  following  day,  to  save 
her  brother.  To  whom  should  she  turn,  however? 
To  Dorsenne?  To  Montfanon?  To  Baron  Hafner? 
To  Peppino  Ardea?  She  thought  by  turns  of  the 
four  personages  whose  almost  simultaneous  visits  had 
caused  her  to  believe  that  they  were  the  seconds  of  the 
two  champions.  She  rejected  them,  one  after  the 
other,  comprehending  that  none  of  them  possessed 
enough  authority  to  arrange  the  affair.  Her  thoughts 
finally  reverted  to  Florent's  adversary,  to  Boleslas 
Gorka,  whose  wife  was  her  friend  and  whom  she  had 
always  found  so  courteous.  What  if  she  should  ask 
him  to  spare  her  brother?  It  was  not  Florcnt  against 
whom  the  discarded  lover  bore  a  grudge.  Would  he 
not  l)e  touched  by  her  tears?  Would  he  not  tell  her 
what  had  led  to  the  quarrel  and  what  she  should  ask 
of  her  brother  that  the  quarrel  might  be  conciliated? 
Could  she  not  obtain  from  him  the  promise  to  dis- 

[248] 


COSMOPOLIS 

charge  his  weapon  in  the  air,  if  the  duel  was  with 
pistols,  or,  if  it  was  with  swords,  simply  to  disarm  his 
enemy  ? 

Like  nearly  all  persons  unversed  in  the  art,  she  be- 
lieved in  infallible  fencers,  in  marksmen  who  never 
missed  their  aim,  and  she  had  also  ideas  profoundly, 
absolutely  inexact  on  the  relations  of  one  man  with 
another  in  the  matter  of  an  insult.  But  how  can 
women  admit  that  inflexible  rigor  in  certain  cases, 
which  forms  the  foundation  of  manly  relations,  when 
they  themselves  allow  of  a  similar  rigor  neither  in  their 
arguments  with  men,  nor  in  their  discussions  among 
themselves?  Accustomed  always  to  appeal  from  con- 
vention to  instinct  and  from  reason  to  sentiment,  they 
are,  in  the  face  of  certain  laws,  be  they  those  of  justice 
or  of  honor,  in  a  state  of  incomprehension  worse  than 
ignorance.  A  duel,  for  example,  appears  to  them  like 
an  arbitrary  drama,  which  the  wish  of  one  of  those  con- 
cerned can  change  at  his  fancy.  Ninety-nine  women 
out  of  a  hundred  would  think  like  Lydia  Maitland  of 
hastening  to  the  adversary  of  the  man  they  love,  to 
demand,  to  beg  for  his  life.  Let  us  add,  however, 
that  the  majority  would  not  carry  out  that  thought. 
They  would  confine  themselves  to  sewing  in  the  vest 
of  their  beloved  some  blessed  medal,  in  recommending 
him  to  the  Providence,  which,  for  them,  is  still  the 
favoritism  of  heaven.  Lydia  felt  that  if  ever  Florent 
should  learn  of  her  step  with  regard  to  Gorka,  he 
would  be  very  indignant.  But  who  would  tell  him? 
She  was  agitated  by  one  of  those  fevers  of  fear  and  of 
remorse  which  are  too  acute  not  to  act,  cost  what  it 

[249] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

might.  Her  carriage  was  announced,  and  she  entered 
it,  giving  the  address  of  the  Palazzetto  Doria.  In  what 
terms  should  she  approach  the  man  to  whom  she  was 
about  to  pay  that  audacious  and  absurd  visit?  Ah, 
what  mattered  it  ?  The  circumstances  would  inspire 
her.  Her  desire  to  cut  short  the  duel  was  so  strong 
that  she  did  not  doubt  of  success. 

She  was  greatly  disappointed  when  the  footman  at 
the  palace  told  her  that  the  Count  had  gone  out,  while 
at  the  same  moment  a  voice  interrupted  him  with  a 
gay  laugh.  It  was  Countess  Maud  Gorka,  who,  re- 
turning from  her  walk  with  her  little  boy,  recognized 
Lydia's  coupe,  and  who  said  to  her: 

"What  a  lucky  idea  I  had  of  returning  a  little  sooner. 
I  see  you  were  afraid  of  a  storm,  as  you  drove  out  in  a 
closed  carriage.  Will  you  come  upstairs  a  moment?" 
And,  perceiving  that  the  young  woman,  whose  hand 
she  had  taken,  was  trembling:  "What  ails  you?  I 
should  think  you  were  ill!  You  do  not  feel  well? 
My  God,  what  ails  her!  She  is  ill,  Luc,"  she  added, 
turning  to  her  son;  "run  to  my  room  and  bring  mc  the 
large  bottle  of  English  salts;  Rose  knows  which  one. 
Go,  go  quickly." 

"It  is  nothing,"  replied  Lydia,  who  had  indeed 
closed  her  eyes  as  if  on  the  point  of  swooning.  "See, 
I  am  Ix'tter  already.  I  think  I  will  return  home;  it 
will  be  wiser." 

"I  shall  not  leave  you,"  said  Maud,  seating  herself, 
too,  in  the  carriage;  and,  as  they  handed  her  the  bottle 
of  salts,  she  made  Madame  Maitland  inhale  it,  talking 
to  her  the  while  as  to  a  sick  child:    "Poor  little  thing! 

[250] 


COSMOPOLIS 

How  her  checks  burn!  And  you  pay  visits  in  this 
state.  It  is  very  venturesome!  Rue  Leopardi,"  she 
called  to  the  coachman,  "quickly." 

The  carriage  rolled  away,  and  Madame  Gorka  con- 
tinued to  press  the  tiny  hands  of  Lydia,  to  whom  she 
gave  the  tender  name,  so  ironical  under  the  circum- 
stances, of  "Poor  little  one!"  Maud  was  one  of 
those  women  like  whom  England  produces  many,  for 
the  honor  of  that  healthy  and  robust  British  civiliza- 
tion, who  are  at  once  all  energy  and  all  goodness.  As 
large  and  stout  as  Lydia  was  slender,  she  would  rather 
have  borne  her  to  her  bed  in  her  vigorous  arms  than  to 
have  abandoned  her  in  the  troubled  state  in  which  she 
had  surprised  her.  Not  less  practical  and,  as  her  com- 
patriots say,  as  matter-of-fact  as  she  was  charitable, 
she  began  to  question  her  friend  on  the  symptoms 
which  had  preceded  that  attack,  when  with  astonish- 
ment she  saw  that  altered  face  contract,  tears  gush- 
ing from  the  closed  eyes,  and  the  fragile  form  con- 
vulsed by  sobs.  Lydia  had  a  nervous  attack  caused 
by  anxiety,  by  the  fresh  disappointment  of  Boleslas's 
absence  from  home,  and  no  doubt,  too,  by  the  gentle- 
ness with  which  Maud  addressed  her,  and  tearing  her 
handkerchief  with  her  white  teeth,  she  moaned : 

"No,  I  am  not  ill.  Rut  it  is  that  thought  which  I 
can  not  bear.  No,  I  cannot.  Ah,  it  is  maddening!" 
And  turning  toward  her  companion,  she  in  her  turn 
pressed  her  hands,  saying:  "But  you  know  nothing! 
You  suspect  nothing!  It  is  that  wliich  maddens  me, 
when  I  see  you  tranquil,  calm,  happy,  as  if  the  minutes 
were  not  valuable,  every  one,  to-day,  to  you  as  well  as 

[251] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

to  me.  For  if  one  is  my  brother,  the  other  is  your 
husband;  and  you  love  him.  You  must  love  him,  to 
have  pardoned  him  for  what  you  have  pardoned  him." 

She  had  spoken  in  a  sort  of  delirium,  brought  about 
by  her  extreme  nervous  excitement,  and  she  had  ut- 
tered, she,  usually  so  dissembling,  her  very  deepest 
thought.  She  did  not  think  she  was  giving  Madame 
Gorka  any  information  by  that  allusion,  so  direct,  to 
the  liaison  of  Boleslas  with  INIadame  Steno.  She  was 
persuaded,  as  was  entire  Rome,  that  Maud  knew  of 
her  husband's  infidelities,  and  that  she  tolerated  them 
by  one  of  those  heroic  sacrifices  which  maternity  justi- 
fies. How  many  women  have  immolated  thus  their 
wifely  pride  to  maintain  the  domestic  relation  which 
the  father  shall  at  least  not  desert  officially!  All  Rome 
was  mistaken,  and  Lydia  Maitland  was  to  have  an  un- 
expected proof.  Not  a  suspicion  that  such  an  intrigue 
could  unite  her  husband  with  the  mother  of  her  best 
friend  had  ever  entered  the  thoughts  of  Boleslas's  wife. 
But  to  account  for  that,  it  is  necessary  to  admit,  as  well, 
and  to  comprehend  the  depth  of  innocence  of  which, 
notwithstanding  her  twenty-six  years,  the  beautiful 
and  healthy  Englishwoman,  with  her  eyes  so  clear,  so 
frank,  was  possessed. 

She  was  one  of  those  persons  who  command  the 
rc'S])ect  of  the  boldest  of  men,  and  before  whom  the 
most  dissolute  women  exercised  care.  She  might  have 
seen  the  freedom  of  Madame  Steno  without  being  dis- 
illusioned. She  had  only  a  liking  for  acquaintances 
and  positive  conversation.  She  was  very  intellectual, 
but  without  any  desire  to  study  character. 

[252] 


COSMOPOLIS 

Dorsenne  said  of  her,  with  more  justness  than  he 
thought:  "Madame  Boleslas  Gorka  is  married  to  a 
man  who  has  never  been  presented  to  her,"  meaning  by 
that,  that  first  of  all  she  had  no  idea  of  her  husband's 
character,  and  then  of  the  treason  of  which  she  was 
the  victim.  However,  the  novelist  was  not  altogether 
right.  Boleslas's  infidelity  was  of  too  long  standing 
for  the  woman  passionately,  religiously  loyal,  who  was 
his  wife,  not  to  have  suffered  by  it.  But  there  was  an 
abyss  between  such  sufferings  and  the  intuition  of  a 
determined  fact  such  as  that  which  Lydia  had  just 
mentioned,  and  such  a  suspicion  was  so  far  from 
Maud's  thoughts  that  her  companion's  words  only 
aroused  in  her  astonishment  at  the  mysterious  danger 
of  which  Lydia's  troubles  was  a  proof  more  eloquent 
still  than  her  words. 

"Your  brother?  My  husband?"  she  said.  "I  do 
not  understand  you." 

"Naturally,"  replied  Lydia,  "he  has  hidden  all  from 
you,  as  Florent  hid  all  from  me.  Well!  They  are  go- 
ing to  fight  a  duel,  and  to-morrow  morning.  .  .  .  Do 
not  tremble,  in  your  turn,"  she  continued,  twining  her 
arms  around  Maud  Gorka.  "We  shall  be  two  to  pre- 
vent the  terrible  affair,  and  we  shall  prevent  it." 

"A  duel?  To-morrow  morning ? "  repeated  Maud, 
in  affright.  "Boleslas  fights  to-morrow  with  your 
brother?  No,  it  is  impossible.  Who  told  you  so? 
How  do  you  know  it?" 

"I  read  the  proof  of  it  with  my  eyes,"  replied  Lydia. 
"I  read  Florent's  will.  I  read  the  letter  which  he  pre- 
pared for  Maitland  and  for  me  in  case  of  accident.  .  .  . 

[253] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

Should  I  be  in  the  state  in  which  you  see  me  if  it  were 
not  true?" 

'*'Oh,  I  beheve  you!"  cried  Maud,  pressing  her  hands 
to  her  eyehds,  as  if  to  shut  out  a  horrible  sight.  "But 
where  can  they  be  seen?  Boleslas  has  been  here 
scarcely  any  of  the  time  for  two  days.  What  is  there 
between  them  ?  What  have  they  said  to  one  another  ? 
One  does  not  risk  one's  life  for  nothing  when  he  has, 
like  Boleslas,  a  wife  and  a  son.  Answer  me,  I  conjure 
you.  Tell  me  all.  I  desire  to  know  all.  What  is  there 
at  the  bottom  of  this  duel?" 

"What  could  there  be  but  a  woman?"  interrupted 
Lydia,  who  put  into  the  two  last  words  more  savage 
scorn  than  if  she  had  publicly  spit  in  Catcrina  Steno's 
face.  But  that  fresh  access  of  anger  fell  before  the 
surprise  caused  her  by  Madame  Gorka's  reply. 

"What  woman?  I  understand  you  still  less  than  I 
did  just  now." 

"When  we  are  at  home  I  will  speak,"  .  .  .  replied 
Lydia,  after  having  looked  at  Maud  with  a  surprised 
glance,  which  was  in  itself  the  most  terrible  reply. 
The  two  women  were  silent.  It  was  Maud  who  now 
required  the  sympathy  of  friendship,  so  greatly  had 
the  words  uttered  by  Lydia  startled  her.  The  com- 
panion whose  arm  rested  upon  hers  in  that  carriage, 
and  who  had  inspired  her  with  such  pity  fifteen  min- 
utes Ijcfore,  now  rendcrrd  her  fearful.  She  seemed  to 
be  seated  by  the  side  of  another  person.  In  the 
creature  whose  thin  nostrils  were  dilated  with  j^assion, 
whose  mouth  was  distorted  with  bitterness,  whose  eyes 
sparkled  with  anger,   she  no  longer  recognized   little 

[254] 


COSMOPOLIS 

Madame  Maitland,  so  taciturn,  so  reserved  that  she 
was  looked  ui)on  as  insignificant.  What  had  that 
voice,  usually  so  musical,  told  her;  that  voice  so  sud- 
denly become  harsh,  and  which  had  already  revealed 
to  her  the  great  danger  suspended  over  Boleslas?  To 
what  woman  had  that  voice  alluded,  and  what  meant 
that  sudden  reticence? 

Lydia  was  fully  aware  of  the  grief  into  which  she 
would  plunge  Maud  without  the  slightest  premedita- 
tion. For  a  moment  she  thought  it  almost  a  crime  to 
say  more  to  a  woman  thus  deluded.  But  at  the  same 
time  she  saw  in  the  revelation  two  certain  results.  In 
undeceiving  Madame  Gorka  she  made  a  mortal  enemy 
for  Madame  Steno,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  never 
would  the  woman  so  deeply  in  love  with  her  husband 
allow  him  to  fight  for  a  former  mistress.  So,  when 
they  both  entered  the  small  salon  of  the  Moorish 
mansion,  Lydia's  resolution  was  taken.  She  was  de- 
termined to  conceal  nothing  of  what  she  knew  from 
unhappy  Maud,  who  asked  her,  with  a  beating  heart, 
and  in  a  voice  choked  by  emotion : 

"Now,  will  you  explain  to  me  what  you  want  to  say  ? " 

"Question  me,"  repHed  the  other;  "I  will  answer 
you.     I  have  gone  too  far  to  draw  back." 

"You  claimed  that  a  woman  was  the  cause  of  the 
duel  between  your  brother  and  my  husband?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  replied  Lydia. 

"What  is  that  woman's  name?" 

"Madame  Steno." 

"Madame  Steno?"  repeated  Maud.  "Catherine 
Steno  is  the  cause  of  that  duel  ?     How  ?  " 

[255] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"Because  she  is  my  husband's  mistress,"  replied 
Lydia,  brutally;  "because  she  has  been  your  hus- 
band's, because  Gorka  came  here,  mad  with  jealousy, 
to  provoke  Lincoln,  and  because  he  met  my  brother, 
who  prevented  him  from  entering.  .  .  .  They  quar- 
relled, I  know  not  in  what  manner.  But  I  know  the 
cause  of  the  duel.  .  .  .  Am  I  right,  yes  or  no,  in  tell- 
ing you  they  are  to  fight  about  that  woman?" 

"My  husband's  mistress?"  cried  Maud.  "You  say 
Madame  Steno  has  been  my  husband's  mistress?  It 
is  not  true.  You  lie!  You  lie!  You  lie!  I  do  not 
believe  it." 

"You  do  not  believe  me?"  said  Lydia,  shrugging 
her  shoulders.  "As  if  I  had  the  least  interest  in  de- 
ceiving you ;  as  if  one  would  lie  when  the  life  of  the  only 
being  one  loves  in  the  world  is  in  the  balance!  For  I 
have  only  my  brother,  and  perhaps  to-morrow  I  shall 
no  longer  have  him.  .  .  .  But  you  shall  believe  me. 
I  desire  that  we  both  hate  that  woman,  that  we  both 
be  avenged  upon  her,  as  we  both  do  not  wish  the  duel 
to  take  place — the  duel  of  which,  I  repeat,  she  is  the 
cause,  the  sole  cause.  .  .  .  You  do  not  believe  me? 
Do  you  know  what  caused  your  husband  to  return? 
You  did  not  expect  him;  confess!  It  was  I — I,  do 
you  hear — who  wrote  him  what  Steno  and  Lincoln 
were  doing;  day  after  day  I  wrote  about  their  love, 
their  meetings,  their  bliss.  Ah,  I  was  sure  it  would 
not  be  in  vain,  and  he  returned.     Is  thai  a  proof?" 

"You  did  not  do  that?"  cried  Madame  Gorka,  re- 
coiling with  horror.     "It  was  infamous." 

"Yes,  I  did  it,"  replied  Lydia,  with  savage  pride, 
[256] 


COSMOPOLIS 

"and  why  not?  It  was  my  right  when  she  took  my 
husband  from  mc.  You  have  only  to  return  and  to 
look  in  the  place  where  Gorka  keeps  his  letters.  You 
will  certainly  find  those  I  wrote,  and  others,  I  assure 
you,  from  that  woman.  For  she  has  a  mania  for  letter- 
writing.  .  .  .  Do  you  believe  me  now,  or  will  you  re- 
peat that  I  have  lied?" 

"Never,"  returned  Maud,  with  sorrowful  indigna- 
tion upon  her  lovely,  loyal  face,  "no,  never  will  I 
descend  to  such  baseness." 

"Well,  I  will  descend  for  you,"  said  Lydia.  "What 
you  do  not  dare  to  do,  I  will  dare,  and  you  will  ask 
me  to  aid  you  in  being  avenged.  Come,"  and,  seizing 
the  hand  of  her  stupefied  companion,  she  drew  her  into 
Lincoln's  studio,  at  that  moment  unoccupied.  She 
approached  one  of  those  Spanish  desks,  called  bar- 
genos,  and  she  touched  two  small  panels,  which  dis- 
closed, on  opening,  a  secret  drawer,  in  which  were  a 
package  of  letters,  which  she  seized.  Maud  Gorka 
watched  her  with  the  same  terrified  horror  with  which 
she  would  have  seen  some  one  killed  and  robbed. 
That  honorable  soul  revolted  at  the  scene  in  which  her 
mere  presence  made  of  her  an  accomplice.  But  at 
the  same  time  she  was  a  prey,  as  had  been  her  husband 
several  days  before,  to  that  maddening  appetite  to 
know  the  truth,  which  becomes,  in  certain  forms  of 
doubt,  a  physical  need,  as  imperious  as  hunger  and 
thirst,  and  she  listened  to  Florent's  sister,  who  con- 
tinued : 

"Will  it  be  a  proof  when  you  have  seen  the  affair 
written  in  her  own  hand?  Yes,"  she  continued,  with 
17  [257] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

cruel  irony,  "she  loves  correspondence,  our  fortunate 
rival.  Justice  must  be  rendered  her  that  she  may 
make  no  more  avowals.  She  writes  as  she  feels.  It 
seems  that  the  successor  was  jealous  of  his  predecessor. 
.  .  .  See,  is  this  a  proof  this  time?"  .  .  .  And,  after 
having  glanced  at  the  first  letters  as  a  person  familiar 
with  them,  she  handed  one  of  those  papers  to  Maud, 
who  had  not  the  courage  to  avert  her  eyes.  What  she 
saw  written  upon  that  sheet  drew  from  her  a  cry  of 
anguish.  She  had,  however,  only  read  ten  lines,  which 
proved  how  much  mistaken  ps3^chological  Dorsenne 
was  in  thinking  that  Maitland  was  ignorant  of  the  for- 
mer relations  between  his  mistress  and  Gorka.  Coun- 
tess Steno's  grandeur,  that  which  made  a  courageous 
woman  almost  a  heroine  in  her  ])assions,  was  an  abso- 
lute sincerity  and  disgust  for  the  usual  pettiness  of 
flirtations.  She  would  have  disdained  to  deny  to  a 
new  lover  the  knowledge  of  her  past,  and  the  semi- 
avowals,  so  common  to  women,  would  have  seemed 
to  licr  a  cowardice  still  worse.  She  liad  not  essayed 
to  hide  from  Maitland  what  connection  she  had  broken 
off  for  him,  and  it  was  upon  one  of  those  phrases,  in 
which  she  spoke  of  it  openly,  that  Madame  Gorka's 
eyes  fell: 

"You  will  be  pleased  with  me,"  she  wrote,  "and  I 
shall  no  longer  see  in  your  dear  blue  eyes  which  1  kiss, 
as  I  love  them,  that  gleam  of  mistrust  which  troubles 
me.  I  have  stopped  the  corri'spondence  with  (iorka. 
If  you  re(|uire  it,  I  will  even  l)reak  with  Maud,  not- 
withstanding the  reason  you  know  of  and  which  will 
render  it  diOicult  for  me.     Hut  how  can  you  be  jealous 

I258I 


COSMOPOLIS 

yet?  ...  Is  not  my  frankness  with  regard  to  that 
liaison  the  surest  guarantee  that  it  is  ended?  Come, 
do  not  be  jealous.  Listen  to  what  I  know  so  well, 
that  I  felt  I  loved,  and  that  my  hfe  began  only  on  the 
day  when  you  took  me  in  your  arms.  The  woman 
you  have  awakened  in  me,  no  one  has  known " 

"She  writes  well,  does  she  not?"  said  Lydia,  with  a 
gleam  of  savage  triumph  in  her  eyes.  "Do  you  be- 
lieve me,  now  ?  ...  Do  you  see  that  we  have  the  same 
interest  to-day,  a  common  affront  to  avenge?  And 
we  will  avenge  it.  .  .  .  Do  you  understand  that  you 
can  not  allow  your  husband  to  fight  a  duel  with  my 
brother?  You  owe  that  to  me  who  have  given  you 
this  weapon  by  which  you  hold  him.  .  .  .  Threaten 
him  with  a  divorce.  Fortune  is  with  you.  The  law 
will  give  you  your  child.  I  repeat,  you  hold  him  firmly. 
You  will  prevent  the  duel,  will  you  not?" 

"Ah!  What  do  you  think  it  matters  to  me  now  if 
they  fight  or  not?"  said  Maud.  "From  the  moment 
he  deceived  me  was  I  not  widowed  ?  Do  not  approach 
me,"  she  added,  looking  at  Lydia  with  wild  eyes,  while 
a  shudder  of  repulsion  shook  her  entire  frame.  .  .  . 
"Do  not  speak  to  me.  ...  I  have  as  much  horror  of 
you  as  of  him.  .  .  .  Let  me  go,  let  mc  leave  here.  .  .  . 
Even  to  feel  myself  in  the  same  room  with  you  fills  me 
with  horror.  .  .  .  Ah,  what  disgrace!" 

She  retreated  to  the  door,  fixing  upon  her  informant 
a  gaze  which  the  other  sustained,  notwithstanding  the 
scorn  in  it,  with  the  gloomy  pride  of  defiance.  She 
went  out  repeating:  "Ah,  what  disgrace!"  without 
Lydia  having  addressed  her,  so  greatly  had  surprise  at 

[259] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

the  unexpected  result  of  all  her  attempts  paralyzed 
her.  But  the  formidable  creature  lost  no  time  in  re- 
gret and  repentance.  She  paused  a  few  moments  to 
think.  Then,  crushing  in  her  nervous  hand  the  letter 
she  had  shown  Maud,  at  the  risk  of  being  discovered 
by  her  husband  later,  she  said  aloud : 

"Coward!  Lord,  what  a  coward  she  is!  She 
loves.  She  will  pardon.  Will  there,  then,  be  no  one 
to  aid  me?  No  one  to  smite  them  in  their  insolent 
happiness."  After  meditating  awhile,  her  face  still 
more  contracted,  she  placed  the  letter  in  the  drawer, 
which  she  closed  again,  and  half  an  hour  later  she  sum- 
moned a  commissionaire,  to  whom  she  intrusted  a  let- 
ter, with  the  order  to  dehver  it  immediately,  and  that 
letter  was  addressed  to  the  inspector  of  police  of  the 
district.  She  informed  him  of  the  intended  duel,  giv- 
ing him  the  names  of  the  two  adversaries  and  of  the 
four  seconds.  If  she  had  not  been  afraid  of  her 
brother,  she  would  even  that  time  have  signed  her 
name. 

"I  should  have  gone  to  work  that  way  at  first,"  said 
she  to  herself,  when  the  door  of  the  small  salon  closed 
behind  the  messenger  to  whom  she  had  given  her  order 
personally.  "The  police  know  how  to  prevent  them 
from  fighting,  even  if  I  do  not  succeed  with  Florcnt. 
...  As  for  him?"  .  .  .  and  she  looked  at  a  portrait 
of  Maitland  upon  the  desk  at  which  she  had  just  been 
writing.  "Were  T  to  tell  him  what  is  taking  place. 
.  .  .  No,  I  will  ask  nothing  of  him.  ...  I  hate  him 
too  much.".  .  .  And  she  concluded  with  a  fierce  smile, 
which  disclosed  her  teeth  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth: 

[260] 


COSMOPOLIS 

"It  is  all  the  same.  It  is  necessary  that  Maud  Gorka 
work  with  me  against  her.  There  is  some  one  whom 
she  will  not  pardon,  and  that  is  .  .  .  Madame  Steno." 
And,  in  spite  of  her  uneasiness,  the  wicked  woman  trem- 
bled with  delight  at  the  thought  of  her  work. 


[261] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ON   THE   GROUND 

!hEN  Maud  Gorka  left  the  house  on  the 
Rue  Leopardi  she  walked  on  at  first 
rapidly,  blindly,  without  seeing,  with- 
out hearing  anything,  like  a  wounded 
animal  which  runs  through  the  thicket 
to  escape  danger,  to  escape  its  wounds, 
to  escape  itself.  It  was  a  little  more 
than  half-past  three  o'clock  when  the 
unhappy  woman  hastened  from  the  studio,  unable  to 
bear  near  her  the  presence  of  Lydia  Maitland,  of  that 
sinister  worker  of  vengeance  who  had  so  cruelly  re- 
vealed to  her,  with  such  indisputable  proofs,  the 
atrocious  affair,  the  long,  the  infamous,  the  inexpiable 
treason. 

It  was  almost  six  o'clock  before  Maud  Gorka  really 
regained  consciousness.  A  very  common  occurrence 
aroused  her  from  llie  somnambulism  of  suffering  in 
which  she  had  wandered  for  two  hours.  The  storm 
which  had  threatened  since  noon  at  length  broke. 
Maud,  who  had  .scarcely  luedcd  the  first  large  drops, 
was  forced  to  .seek  shelter  when  the  clouds  suddenly 
burst,  and  she  took  refuge  al  ihc  right  extremity  of  the 
colonnade  of  St.  Peter's.  How  had  she  gone  that  far? 
She  did  not  know  herself  ])rccisely.     She  remembered 

[262] 


COSMOPOLIS 

vaguely  that  she  had  wandered  through  a  labyrinth  of 
small  streets,  had  crossed  the  Tiber — no  doubt  ])y  the 
Garibaldi  bridge — had  passed  through  a  large  garden 
— doubtless  the  Janicule,  since  she  had  walked  along 
a  portion  of  the  ramparts.  She  had  left  the  city  by  the 
Porte  de  Saint-Pancrace,  to  follow  by  that  of  Caval- 
legieri  the  sinuous  line  of  the  Urban  walls. 

That  corner  of  Rome,  with  a  view  of  the  pines  of  the 
Villa  Pamfili  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  the  back  part 
of  the  Vatican,  serves  as  a  promenade  during  the  win- 
ter for  the  few  cardinals  who  go  in  search  of  the  after- 
noon sun,  certain  there  of  meeting  only  a  few  strangers. 
In  the  month  of  May  it  is  a  desert,  scorched  by  the  sun, 
which  glows  upon  the  brick,  discolored  by  two  centuries 
of  that  implacable  heat  which  caresses  the  scales  of  the 
green  and  gray  lizards  about  to  crawl  between  the 
bees  of  Pope  Urbain  VIII's  escutcheon  of  the  Barberini 
family.  Madame  Gorka's  instinct  had  at  least  served 
her  in  leading  her  upon  a  route  on  which  she  met  no 
one.  Now  the  sense  of  reality  returned.  She  recog- 
nized the  objects  around  her,  and  that  framework,  so 
familiar  to  her  piety  of  fervent  Catholicism,  the  enor- 
mous square,  the  obelisk  of  Sixte-Quint  in  the  centre, 
the  fountains,  the  circular  portico  crowned  with  bishops 
and  martyrs,  the  palace  of  the  Vatican  at  the  corner, 
and  yonder  the  facade  of  the  large  papal  cathedral, 
with  the  Saviour  and  the  apostles  erect  upon  the  august 
pediment. 

On  any  other  occasion  in  life  the  pious  young 
woman  would  have  seen  in  the  chance  which  led  her 
thither,  almost  unconsciously,  an  influence  from  above, 

[263] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

an  invitation  to  enter  the  church,  there  to  ask  the 
strength  to  suffer  of  the  God  who  said:  "Let  him  who 
wishes  follow  me,  let  him  renounce  all,  let  him  take 
up  his  cross  and  follow  me!"  But  she  was  passing 
through  that  first  bitter  paroxysm  of  grief  in  which  it 
is  impossible  to  pray,  so  greatly  does  the  revolt  of 
nature  cry  out  within  us.  Later,  we  may  recognize  the 
hand  of  Providence  in  the  trial  imposed  upon  us. 
We  see  at  first  only  the  terrible  injustice  of  fate,  and 
we  tremble  in  the  deepest  recesses  of  our  souls  with 
rebellion  at  the  blow  from  which  we  bleed.  That 
which  rendered  the  rebellion  more  invincible  and  more 
fierce  in  Maud,  was  the  suddenness  of  the  mortal 
blow. 

Daily  some  pure,  honest  woman,  like  her,  acquires 
the  proof  of  the  treason  of  a  husband  whom  she  has 
not  ceased  to  love.  Ordinarily,  the  indisputable  proof 
is  preceded  by  a  long  period  of  suspicion.  The  faith- 
less one  neglects  his  hearth.  A  change  takes-  place  in 
his  daily  habits.  Various  hints  reveal  to  the  outraged 
wife  the  trace  of  a  rival,  which  woman's  jealousy  dis- 
tinguishes with  a  scent  as  certain  as  that  of  a  dog 
which  finds  a  stranger  in  the  house.  And,  finally, 
although  there  is  in  the  transition  from  doubt  to  cer- 
tainty a  laceration  of  the  heart,  it  is  at  least  the  lacera- 
tion of  a  heart  prepared.  That  preparation,  that 
adaptation,  so  to  speak,  of  her  soul  to  the  truth,  Maud 
had  been  deprived  of.  The  care  taken  by  Madame 
Stcno  to  strengthen  the  friendship  between  her  and 
Alba  had  suppressed  the  slightest  signs.  Bolcslas  had 
no  need  to  change  his  domestic  life  in  order  to  see  his 

[264] 


rOSMOPOLIS 

mistress  at  his  convenience  and  in  an  intimacy  enter- 
tained, provoked,  by  his  wife  herself.     The  wife,  too, 
had  been  totally,   absolutely  deceived.     She  had  as- 
sisted in  her  husband's  adultery  with  one  of  those 
illusions  so  complete  that  it  seemed  improbable  to  the 
indifferent   and   to   strangers.     The   awakening   from 
such  illusions  is  the  most  terrible.     That  man  whom 
society  considered  a  complaisant  husband,  that  woman 
who  seemed  so  indulgent  a  wife,  suddenly  find  that 
they  have  committed  a  murder  or  a  suicide,  to  the  great 
astonishment  of  the  world  which,  even  then,  hesitates 
to  recognize  in  that  access  of  folly  the  proof,  the  blow, 
more  formidable,  more  instantaneous  in  its  ravages, 
than  those  of  love— sudden  disillusion.     When  the  dis- 
aster is  not  interrupted  by  acts  of  violence,  it  causes  an 
irreparable  destruction  of  the  youthfulness  of  the  soul, 
it  is  the  idea  instilled  in  us  forever  that  all  can  betray, 
since  we  have  been  betrayed  in  that  manner.     It  is 
for  years,  for  life,  sometimes,  that  powerlessness  to  be 
affected,    to   hope,    to   believe,    which   caused   Maud 
Gorka  to  remain,  on  that  afternoon,  leaning  against 
the  pedestal  of  a  column,  watching  the  rain  fall,  instead 
of  ascending  to  the  Basilica,  where  the  confessional  of- 
fers pardon  for  all  sins  and  the  remedy  for  all  sorrows. 
Alas!     It  was  consolation  simply  to  kneel  there,  and 
the  poor  woman  was  only  in  the  first  stage  of  Calvary. 
She  watched  the  rain  fall,  and  she  found  a  savage 
comfort  in  the  formidable  character  of  the  storm,  which 
seemed  like  a  cataclysm  of  nature,  to  such  degree  did 
the  flash  of  the  lightning  and  the  roar  of  the  thunder 
mingle  with  the  echoes  of  the  vast  palace  beneath  the 

[265] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

lash  of  the  wind.  Forms  began  to  take  shape  in  her 
mind,  after  the  whirhvind  of  bhnd  suffering  in  which 
she  felt  herself  borne  away  after  the  first  glance  cast 
upon  that  fatal  letter.  Each  word  rose  before  her 
eyes,  so  feverish  that  she  closed  them  with  pain.  The 
last  two  years  of  her  life,  those  which  had  bound  her 
to  Countess  Steno,  returned  to  her  thoughts,  illumi- 
nated by  a  brilliance  which  drew  from  her  constantly 
these  words,  uttered  with  a  moan:  How  could  he? 
She  saw  Venice  and  their  sojourn  in  the  villa  to  which 
Boleslas  had  conducted  her  after  the  death  of  their 
little  girl,  in  order  that  there,  in  the  restful  atmosphere 
of  the  lagoon,  she  might  overcome  the  keen  paroxysm 
of  pain. 

How  very  kind  and  delicate  Madame  Steno  had 
been  at  that  time;  at  least  how  kind  she  had  seemed, 
and  how  delicate  likewise,  comprehending  her  grief 
and  sympathizing  with  it.  .  .  .  Their  superficial  rela- 
tions had  gradually  ripened  into  friendship.  Then,  no 
doubt,  the  treason  had  begun.  The  purloiner  of  love 
had  introduced  herself  under  cover  of  the  pity  in  which 
Maud  had  believed.  Seeing  the  Countess  so  generous, 
she  had  treated  as  calumny  the  slander  of  the  world 
relative  to  a  person  capable  of  such  touching  kindness 
of  heart.  And  it  was  at  that  moment  that  the  false 
woman  took  Boleslas  from  her!  A  thousand  details 
recurred  to  her  which  al  the  time  she  had  not  under- 
stood; the  sails  of  the  two  lovers  in  the  gondola, 
which  she  had  not  even  thought  of  suspecting;  a  visit 
which  Boleslas  had  made  to  Piove  and  from  which  he 
only  returned  the  following  day,  giving  as  a  pretext  a 

r  2r.6  I 


COSMOPOLIS 

missed  train ;  words  uttered  aside  on  the  balcony  of  the 
Palais  Steno  at  night,  while  she  talked  with  Alba.  Yes, 
it  was  at  Venice  that  their  adultery  began,  before  her 
who  had  divined  nothing,  her  whose  heart  was  filled 
with  inconsolable  regret  for  her  lost  darling!  Ah,  how 
could  he?  she  moaned  again,  and  the  visions  multiplied. 

In  her  mind  were  then  opened  all  the  windows 
which  Gorka's  perfidity  and  the  Countess's  as  well, 
had  sealed  with  such  care.  She  saw  again  the  months 
which  followed  their  return  to  Rome,  and  that  mode 
of  life  so  convenient  for  both.  How  often  had  she 
walked  out  with  Alba,  thus  freeing  the  mother  and 
the  husband  from  the  only  surveillance  annoying  to 
them.  What  did  the  lovers  do  during  those  hours? 
How  many  times  on  returning  to  the  Palazzetto  Doria 
had  she  found  Catherine  Steno  in  the  library,  seated  on 
the  divan  beside  Boleslas,  and  she  had  not  mistrusted 
that  the  woman  had  come,  during  her  absence,  to  em- 
brace that  man,  to  talk  to  him  of  love,  to  give  herself 
to  him,  without  doubt,  with  the  charm  of  villainy  and  of 
danger!  She  remembered  the  episode  of  their  meeting 
at  Bayreuth  the  previous  summer,  when  she  went  to 
England  alone  with  her  son,  and  when  her  husband 
undertook  to  conduct  Alba  and  the  Countess  from 
Rome  to  Bavaria.  They  had  all  met  at  Nuremberg. 
The  apartments  of  the  hotel  in  which  the  meeting  took 
place  became  again  very  vivid  in  Maud's  memory,  with 
Madame  Steno's  bedroom  adjoining  that  of  Boleslas's. 

The  vision  of  their  caresses,  enjoyed  in  the  liberty  of 
the  night,  while  innocent  Alba  slept  near  by,  and  when 
she  rolled  away  in  a  carriage  with  little  Luc,  drew 

[267^] 


PAUL  BOIJRGET 

from  her  this  cry  once  more:  ^^Ah,  how  could  heP\  .  . 
And  immediately  that  vision  awoke  in  her  the  re- 
membrance of  her  husband's  recent  return.  She  saw 
him  traversing  Europe  on  the  receipt  of  an  anonymous 
letter,  to  reach  that  woman's  side  twenty-four  hours 
sooner.  What  a  proof  of  passion  was  the  frenzy 
which  had  not  allowed  him  any  longer  to  bear  doubt 
and  absence!  .  .  .  Did  he  love  the  mistress  who  did 
not  even  love  him,  since  she  had  deceived  him  with 
Maitland?  And  he  was  going  to  fight  a  duel  on  her 
account!  .  .  .  Jealousy,  at  that  moment,  wrung  the 
wife's  heart  with  a  pang  still  stronger  than  that  of  in- 
dignation. She,  the  strong  Englishwoman,  so  large,  so 
robust,  almost  masculine  in  form,  mentally  compared 
herself  with  the  supple  Italian  with  her  form  so  round, 
with  her  gestures  so  graceful,  her  hands  so  delicate,  her 
feet  so  dainty;  compared  herself  with  the  creature  of 
desire,  whose  every  movement  implied  a  secret  wave  of 
passion,  and  she  ceased  her  cry — ^'Ah,  how  could  he?^^ 
— at  once.  She  had  a  clear  knowledge  of  the  power  of 
her  rival. 

It  is  indeed  a  supreme  agony  for  an  honorable 
woman,  who  loves,  to  feel  herself  thus  degraded  by  the 
mere  thought  of  the  intoxication  her  husband  has 
tasted  in  arms  more  beautiful,  more  caressing,  more 
entwining  than  hers.  It  was,  too,  a  signal  for  the 
return  of  will  to  the  tortured  but  proud  soul.  Dis- 
gust possessed  her,  so  violent,  so  complete,  for  the 
atmosphere  of  falsehood  and  of  sensuality  in  which 
Bolcslas  had  lived  two  years,  that  she  drew  herself  up, 
becoming  again  strong  and  implacable.     Braving  the 

[  268  J 


COSMOPOLIS 

storm,  she  turned  in  the  direction  of  her  home,  with 
this  resolution  as  firmly  rooted  in  her  mind  as  if  she 
had  deliberated  for  months  and  months. 

"I  will  not  remain  with  that  man  another  day.  To- 
morrow I  will  leave  for  England  with  my  son." 

How  many,  in  a  similar  situation,  have  uttered  such 
vows,  to  abjure  them  when  they  find  themselves  face 
to  face  with  the  man  who  has  betrayed  them,  and 
whom  they  love.  Maud  was  not  of  that  order.  Cer- 
tainly she  loved  dearly  the  seductive  Boleslas,  wedded 
against  her  parents'  will  the  perfidious  one  for  whom 
she  had  sacrificed  all,  living  far  from  her  native  land 
and  her  family  for  years,  because  it  pleased  him,  breath- 
ing, living,  only  for  him  and  for  their  boy.  But  there 
was  within  her — as  her  long,  square  chin,  her  short 
nose  and  the  strength  of  her  brow  revealed — the  force 
of  inflexibility — which  is  met  with  in  characters  of  an 
absolute  uprightness.  Love,  with  her,  could  be  stifled 
by  disgust,  or,  rather,  she  considered  it  degrading  to 
continue  to  love  one  whom  she  scorned,  and,  at  that 
moment,  it  was  supreme  scorn  which  reigned  in  her 
heart.  She  had,  in  the  highest  degree,  the  great  virtue 
which  is  found  wherever  there  is  nobility,  and  of  which 
the  English  have  made  the  basis  of  their  moral  educa- 
tion— the  rehgion,  the  fanaticism  of  loyalty.  She  had 
always  grieved  on  discovering  the  wavering  nature  of 
Boleslas.  But  if  she  had  observed  in  him,  with  sor- 
row, any  exaggerations  of  language,  any  artificial  senti- 
ment, a  dangerous  suppleness  of  mind,  she  had  par- 
doned him  those  defects  with  the  magnanimity  of  love, 
attributing  them  to  a  defective  training.     Gorka  at  a 

[269] 


PALL  BOURGET 

very  early  age  had  witnessed  a  stirring  family  drama — 
his  mother  and  his  father  lived  apart,  while  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other  had  the  exclusive  guidance  of  the 
child.  How  could  she  find  indulgence  for  the  shame- 
ful hypocrisy  of  two  years'  standing,  for  the  villainy  of 
that  treachery  practised  at  the  domestic  hearth,  for 
the  continued,  voluntary  disloyalty  of  every  day,  every 
hour?  Though  Maud  experienced,  in  the  midst  of  her 
despair,  the  sort  of  calmness  which  proves  a  firm  and 
just  resolution,  when  she  reentered  the  Palazzetto  Doria 
— what  a  drama  had  been  enacted  in  her  heart  since 
her  going  out ! — and  it  was  in  a  voice  almost  as  calm  as 
usual  that  she  asked:  "Is  the  Count  at  home?" 

What  did  she  experience  when  the  servant,  after 
answering  her  in  the  affirmative,  added:  "Madame 
and  Mademoiselle  Steno,  too,  are  awaiting  Madame  in 
the  salon."  At  the  thought  that  the  woman  w^ho  had 
stolen  from  her  her  husband  was  there,  the  betrayed 
wife  felt  her  blood  boil,  to  use  a  common  but  expressive 
phrase.  It  was  very  natural  that  Alba's  mother  should 
call  upon  her,  as  was  her  custom.  It  was  still  more 
natural  for  her  to  come  there  that  day.  For  very 
probably  a  report  of  the  duel  the  following  day  had 
reached  her.  Her  presence,  however,  and  at  that  mo- 
ment, aroused  in  Maud  a  feeling  of  indignation  so 
impassioned  that  her  first  impulse  was  to  enter,  to 
drive  out  Bolcslas's  mistress  as  one  would  drive  out  a 
servant  surprised  thieving.  Suddenly  the  thought  of 
Alba  presented  itself  to  her  mind,  of  that  sweet  and 
pure  Alba,  of  that  soul  as  pure  as  her  name,  of  her 
whose  dearest  friend  she  was.     Since  the  dread  revela- 

[270] 


COSMOPOLIS 

tion  she  had  thought  several  times  of  the  young  girl. 
But  her  deep  sorrow  having  absorbed  all  the  power  of 
her  soul,  she  had  not  been  able  to  feel  such  friendship 
for  the  delicate  and  pretty  child.  At  the  thought  of 
ejecting  her  rival,  as  she  had  the  right  to  do,  that  sen- 
timent stirred  within  her.  A  strange  pity  flooded  her 
soul,  which  caused  her  to  pause  in  the  centre  of  the 
large  hall,  ornamented  with  statues  and  columns, 
which  she  was  in  the  act  of  crossing.  She  called  the 
servant  just  as  he  was  about  to  put  his  hand  on  the 
knob  of  the  door.  The  analogy  between  her  situation 
and  that  of  Alba  struck  her  very  forcibly.  She  ex- 
perienced the  sensation  which  Alba  had  so  often  ex- 
perienced in  connection  with  Fanny,  sympathy  with  a 
sorrow  so  like  her  own.  She  could  not  give  her  hand 
to  Madame  Steno  after  what  she  had  discovered,  nor 
could  she  speak  to  her  otherwise  than  to  order  her 
from  her  house.  And  to  utter  before  Alba  one  single 
phrase,  to  make  one  single  gesture  which  would  arouse 
her  suspicions,  would  be  too  implacable,  too  iniquitous 
a  vengeance!  She  turned  toward  the  door  which  led 
to  her  own  room,  bidding  the  servant  ask  his  master 
to  come  thither.  She  had  devised  a  means  of  satisfy- 
ing her  just  indignation  without  wounding  her  dear 
friend,  who  was  not  responsible  for  the  fact  that  the 
two  culprits  had  taken  shelter  behind  her  innocence. 
Having  entered  the  small,  pretty  boudoir  which  led 
into  her  bedroom,  she  seated  herself  at  her  desk,  on 
which  was  a  photograph  of  Madame  Steno,  in  a  group 
consisting  of  Boleslas,  Alba,  and  herself.  The  photo- 
graph smiled  with  a  smile  of  superb  insolence,  which 

[271] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

suddenly  reawakened  in  the  outraged  woman  her 
frenzy  of  rancor,  interrupted  or  rather  suspended  for 
several  moments  by  pity.  She  took  the  frame  in  her 
hands,  she  cast  it  upon  the  ground,  trampling  the  glass 
beneath  her  feet,  then  she  began  to  write,  on  the  first 
blank  sheet,  one  of  those  notes  which  passion  alone 
dares  to  pen,  which  does  not  draw  back  at  every  word : 

''I  know  all.  For  two  years  you  have  been  my 
husband's  mistress.  Do  not  deny  it.  I  have  read  the 
confession  written  by  your  own  hand.  I  do  not  wish 
to  see  nor  to  speak  to  you  again.  Never  again  set  foot 
in  my  house.  On  account  of  your  daughter  I  have  not 
driven  you  out  to-day.  A  second  time  I  shall  not 
hesitate." 

She  was  just  about  to  sign  Maud  Gorka,  when  the 
sound  of  the  door  opening  and  shutting  caused  her 
to  turn.  Bolcslas  was  before  her.  Upon  his  face  was 
an  ambiguous  expression,  which  exasperated  the  un- 
happy wife  still  more.  Having  returned  more  than  an 
hour  before,  he  had  learned  that  Maud  had  accompa- 
nied to  the  Rue  Leopard i  Madame  Maitland,  who  was 
ill,  and  he  awaited  her  return  with  impatience,  agitated 
by  the  thought  that  Florent's  sister  was  no  doubt  ill 
owing  to  the  duel  of  the  morrow,  and  in  that  case, 
Maud,  too,  would  know  all.  There  are  conversations 
and,  above  all,  adieux  which  a  man  who  is  about  to 
fight  a  duel  always  likes  to  avoid.  Although  he  forced 
a  smile,  he  no  longer  doubted.  His  wife's  evident 
agitation  could  not  be  explained  by  any  other  cause. 
Could  he  divine  that  she  liad  learned  not  only  of  the 
duel,  but,  too,  of  an  intrigue  that  day  ended  and  of 

[272] 


COSMOPOLIS 

which  she  had  known  nothing  for  two  years?  As  she 
was  silent,  and  as  that  silence  embarrassed  him,  he 
tried,  in  order  to  keep  him  in  countenance,  to  take  her 
hand  and  kiss  it,  as  was  his  custom.  She  repelled  him 
with  a  look  which  he  had  never  seen  upon  her  face  and 
said  to  him,  handing  him  the  sheet  of  paper  lying  be- 
fore her: 

''Do  you  wish  to  read  this  note  before  I  send  it  to 
Madame  Steno,  who  is  in  the  salon  with  her  daughter?" 

Boleslas  took  the  letter.  He  read  the  terrible  lines, 
and  he  became  livid.  His  agitation  was  so  great  that 
he  returned  the  paper  to  his  wife  without  replying, 
without  attempting  to  prevent,  as  was  his  duty,  the 
insult  offered  to  his  former  mistress,  whom  he  still 
loved  to  the  point  of  risking  his  life  for  her.  That 
man,  so  brave  and  so  yielding  at  once,  was  over- 
whelmed by  one  of  those  surprises  which  put  to  flight 
all  the  powers  of  the  mind,  and  he  watched  Maud  slip 
the  note  into  an  envelope,  write  the  address  and  ring. 
He  heard  her  say  to  the  servant : 

"You  will  take  this  note  to  Countess  Steno  and  you 
will  excuse  me  to  the  ladies.  ...  I  feel  too  indisposed 
to  receive  any  one.  If  they  insist,  you  will  reply  that 
I  have  forbidden  you  to  admit  any  one.  You  under- 
stand— any  one." 

The  man  took  the  note.  He  left  the  room  and  he 
had  no  doubt  fulfilled  his  errand  while  the  husband 
and  wife  stood  there,  face  to  face,  neither  of  them 
breaking  the  formidable  silence.  They  felt  that  the 
hour  was  a  solemn  one. 

Never,  since  the  day  on  which  Cardinal  Manning 
i8  [273] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

had  united  their  destinies  in  the  chapel  of  Ardrahan 
Castle,  had  they  been  engaged  in  a  crisis  so  tragical. 
Such  moments  lay  bare  the  very  depths  of  the  charac- 
ter. Courageous  and  noble,  Maud  did  not  think  of 
weighing  her  words.  She  did  not  try  to  feed  her  jeal- 
ousy, nor  to  accentuate  the  cruelty  of  the  cause  of  the 
insult  which  she  had  the  right  to  launch  at  the  man 
toward  whom  that  very  morning  she  had  been  so  con- 
fiding, so  tender.  The  baseness  and  the  cruelty  were 
to  remain  forever  unknown  to  the  woman  who  no  longer 
hesitated  as  to  the  bold  resolution  she  had  made.  No. 
That  which  she  expected  of  the  man  whom  she  had 
loved  so  dearly,  of  whom  she  had  entertained  so  ex- 
alted an  opinion,  whom  she  had  just  seen  fall  so  low, 
was  a  cry  of  truth,  an  avowal  in  which  she  would  find 
the  throb  of  a  last  remnant  of  honor.  If  he  were  silent 
it  was  not  because  he  was  preparing  a  denial.  The 
tenor  of  Maud's  letter  left  no  doubt  as  to  the  nature  of 
the  proofs  she  had  in  her  hand,  which  she  had  there 
no  doubt.  How?  He  did  not  ask  himself  that  ques- 
tion, governed  as  he  was  by  a  phenomenon  in  which 
was  revealed  to  the  full  the  singular  complexity  of  his 
nature.  The  Slav's  especial  characteristic  is  a  pro- 
digious, instantaneous  nervousness.  It  seems  that 
those  beings  with  the  uncertain  hearts  have  a  faculty  of 
amplifying  in  themselves,  to  the  point  of  absorbing  the 
heart  altogether,  states  of  partial,  pas.sing,  and  yet  sin- 
cere emotion.  The  intensity  of  their  momentary  ex- 
citement thus  makes  of  them  sincere  comedians,  who 
speak  to  you  as  if  they  felt  certain  sentiments  of  an 
exclusive   order,    to   feel   contradictory   ones   the  day 

[274I 


COSMOPOLIS 

after,  with  the  same  ardor,  with  the  same  untruthful- 
ness, unjustly  say  the  victims  of  those  natures,  so  much 
the  more  deceitful  as  they  are  more  vibrating. 

He  suffered,  indeed,  on  discovering  that  Maud  had 
been  initiated  into  his  criminal  intrigue,  but  he  suf- 
fered more  for  her  than  for  himself.  It  was  sufficient 
for  that  suffering  to  occupy  a  few  moments,  a  few 
hours.  It  reinvested  the  personality  of  the  impas- 
sioned and  weak  husband  who  loved  his  wife  while 
betraying  her.  There  was,  indeed,  a  shade  of  it  in  his 
adventure,  but  a  very  slight  shade.  And  yet,  he  did 
not  think  he  was  telling  an  untruth,  when  he  finally 
broke  the  silence  to  say  to  her  whom  he  had  so  long 
deceived : 

"You  have  avenged  yourself  with  much  severity, 
Maud,  but  you  had  the  right.  ...  I  do  not  know  who 
has  informed  you  of  an  error  which  was  very  culpable, 
very  wrong,  very  unfortunate,  too.  ...  I  know  that  I 
have  in  Rome  enemies  bent  upon  my  ruin,  and  I  am 
sure  they  have  left  me  no  means  of  defending  myself. 
...  I  have  deceived  you,  and  I  have  suffered." 

He  paused  after  those  words,  uttered  with  a  tremor 
of  conviction  which  was  not  assumed.  He  had  forgot- 
ten that  ten  minutes  before  he  had  entered  the  room 
with  the  firm  determination  to  hide  his  duel  and  its 
cause  from  the  woman  for  whose  pardon  he  would  at 
that  moment  have  sacrificed  his  life  without  hesitation. 
He  continued,  in  a  voice  softened  by  affection:  "What- 
ever they  have  told  you,  whatever  you  have  read,  I 
swear  to  you,  you  do  not  know  all." 

"I  know  enough,"  interrupted  Maud,  "since  I  know 
[275] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

that  you  have  been  the  lover  of  that  woman,  of  the 
mother  of  my  intimate  friend,  at  my  side,  under  my 
very  eyes.  ...  If  you  had  suffered  by  that  deception, 
as  you  say,  you  would  not  have  waited  to  avow  all  to 
me  until  I  held  in  my  hands  the  undeniable  proof  of 
your  infamy.  .  .  .  You  have  cast  aside  the  mask,  or, 
rather,  I  have  wrested  it  from  you.  ...  I  desire  no 
more.  ...  As  for  the  details  of  the  shameful  story, 
spare  me  them.  It  was  not  to  hear  them  that  I  re- 
entered a  house  every  corner  of  which  reminds  me  that 
I  believed  in  you  implicitly,  and  that  you  have  betrayed 
me,  not  one  day,  but  every  day;  that  you  betrayed  me 
the  day  before  yesterday,  yesterday,  this  morning,  an 
hour  ago.  ...  I  repeat,  that  is  sufficient." 

"But  it  is  not  sufficient  for  me!"  exclaimed  Boleslas. 
"Yes,  all  you  have  just  said  is  true,  and  I  deserve  to 
have  you  tell  it  to  me.  But  that  which  you  could  not 
read  in  those  letters  shown  to  you,  that  which  I  have 
kept  for  two  years  in  the  depths  of  my  heart,  and  which 
must  now  be  told — is  that,  through  all  these  fatal  im- 
pulses, I  have  never  ceased  to  love  you.  .  .  .  Ah,  do 
not  recoil  from  me,  do  not  look  at  mc  thus.  ...  I  feel 
it  once  more  in  the  agony  I  have  suffered  since  you  are 
speaking  to  me;  there  is  something  within  me  that  has 
never  ceased  being  yours.  That  woman  has  been  my 
aberration.  She  has  had  my  madness,  my  senses,  my 
passion,  all  the  evil  instincts  of  my  being.  .  .  .  You 
have  remained  my  idol,  my  affection,  my  religion.  .  .  . 
If  I  lied  lo  you  it  was  because  I  knew  that  the  day  on 
which  you  would  find  out  my  fault  I  should  see  you 
before  me,  despairing  and  implacable  as  you  now  are, 

[276] 


Boleslas  confesses. 

[From  the  Original  Drawing  by  Edward  King.\ 


COSMOPOLIS 

as  I  can  not  bear  to  have  you  be.  Ah,  judge  me,  con- 
demn me,  curse  me ;  but  know,  but  feel,  that  in  spite  of 
all  I  have  loved  you,  I  still  love  you." 

Again  he  spoke  with  an  enthusiasm  which  was  not 
feigned.  Though  he  had  deceived  her,  he  recognized 
only  too  well  the  value  of  the  loyal  creature  before  him, 
whom  he  feared  he  should  lose.  If  he  could  not 
move  her  at  the  moment  when  he  was  about  to  fight  a 
duel,  when  could  he  move  her?  So  he  approached 
her  with  the  same  gesture  of  suppliant  and  impassioned 
adoration  which  he  employed  in  the  early  days  of  their 
marriage,  and  before  his  treason,  when  he  had  told  her 
of  his  love.  No  doubt  that  remembrance  thrust  itself 
upon  Maud  and  disgusted  her,  for  it  was  with  veritable 
horror  that  she  again  recoiled,  replying: 

''Be  silent!  That  he  is  the  worst  of  all.  It  pains 
me.  I  blush  for  you,  in  seeing  that  you  have  not  even 
the  courage  to  acknowledge  your  fault.  God  is  my 
witness,  I  should  have  respected  you  more,  had  you 
said:  'I  have  ceased  loving  you.  I  have  taken  a  mis- 
tress. It  was  convenient  for  me  to  lie  to  you.  I  have 
lied.  I  have  sacrificed  all  to  my  passion,  my  honor, 
my  duties,  my  vows  and  you.'  .  .  .  Ah,  speak  to  me 
like  that,  that  I  may  have  with  you  the  sentiment  of 
truth.  .  .  .  But  that  you  dare  to  repeat  to  me  words 
of  tenderness  after  what  you  have  done  to  me,  inspires 
me  with  repulsion.     It  is  too  bitter." 

"Yes,"  said  Boleslas,  "you  think  thus.  True  and 
simple  as  you  are,  how  could  you  have  learned  to  un- 
derstand what  a  weak  will  is — a  will  which  wishes  and 
which  does  not,  which  rises  and  which  falls?  .  .  .  And 

[277] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

yet,  if  I  had  not  loved  you,  what  interest  would  I  have 
in  lying  to  you?  Have  I  anything  to  conceal  now? 
Ah,  if  you  knew  in  what  a  position  I  am,  on  the  eve  of 
what  day,  I  beseech  you  to  believe  that  at  least  the  best 
part  of  my  being  has  never  ceased  to  be  yours!" 

It  w^as  the  strongest  effort  he  could  make  to  bring 
back  the  heart  of  his  wife  so  deeply  wounded — the 
allusion  to  his  duel.  For  since  she  had  not  mentioned 
it  to  him,  it  was  no  doubt  because  she  was  still  ignorant 
of  it.  He  was  once  more  startled  by  the  reply  she 
made,  and  which  proved  to  him  to  what  a  degree  in- 
dignation had  paralyzed  even  her  love.     He  resumed: 

"Do  you  know  it?" 

"I  know  that  you  fight  a  duel  to-morrow,"  said  she, 
"and  for  your  mistress,  I  know,  too." 

"It  is  not  true,"  he  exclaimed;  "it  is  not  for 
her." 

"What ? "  asked  Maud,  energetically.  "Was  it  not  on 
her  account  that  you  went  to  the  Rue  Leopardi  to  pro- 
voke your  rival  ?  For  she  is  not  even  true  to  you,  and 
it  is  justice.  Was  it  not  on  her  account  that  you 
wished  to  enter  the  house,  in  spite  of  that  rival's  brother- 
in-law,  and  that  a  dispute  arose  between  you,  followed 
by  this  challenge?  Was  it  not  on  her  account,  and  to 
revenge  yourself,  that  you  returned  from  Poland,  be- 
cause you  had  received  anonymous  letters  which  told 
you  all  ?  And  to  know  all  has  not  disgusted  you  for- 
ever witli  that  creature?  .  .  .  But  if  she  had  deigned 
to  lie  to  you,  she  would  have  you  still  at  her  feet,  and 
you  dare  to  tell  me  that  you  love  me  when  you  have 
not  even  cared  to  spare  me  the  affront  of  learning  all 

[278] 


COSMOPOLIS 

that  villainy — all  that  baseness,  all  that  disgrace — 
through  some  one  else?" 

"Who  was  it?"  he  asked.  "Name  that  Judas  to 
me,  at  least?" 

"Do  not  speak  thus,"  interrupted  Maud,  bitterly; 
"you  have  lost  the  right.  .  .  .  And  then  do  not  seek 
too  far.  ...  I  have  seen  Madame  Maitland  to-day." 

"Madame  Maitland?"  repeated  Boleslas.  "Did 
Madame  INIaitland  denounce  me  to  you?  Did  Ma- 
dame Maitland  write  those  anonymous  letters?" 

"She  desired  to  be  avenged,"  replied  Maud,  adding: 
"She  has  the  right,  since  your  mistress  robbed  her  of 
her  husband." 

"Well,  I,  too,  will  be  avenged!"  exclaimed  the 
young  man.  "I  will  kill  that  husband  for  her,  after 
I  have  killed  her  brother.  I  will  kill  them  both,  one 
after  the  other.".  .  .  His  mobile  countenance,  which 
had  just  expressed  the  most  impassioned  of  supplica- 
tions, now  expressed  only  hatred  and  rage,  and  the 
same  change  took  place  in  his  immoderate  sensibility. 
"Of  what  use  is  it  to  try  to  settle  matters?"  he  con- 
tinued. "I  see  only  too  well  all  is  ended  between  us. 
Your  pride  and  your  rancor  are  stronger  than  your 
love.  If  it  had  been  otherwise,  you  would  have  begged 
me  not  to  fight,  and  you  would  only  have  reproached 
me,  as  you  have  the  right  to  do,  I  do  not  deny.  .  .  . 
But  from  the  moment  that  you  no  longer  love  me,  woe 
to  him  whom  I  find  in  my  patli!  Woe  to  Madame 
Maitland  and  to  those  she  loves!" 

"This  time  at  least  you  are  sincere,"  replied  Maud, 
with  renewed  bitterness.     "Do  you  think  I  have  not 

[279] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

suffered  sufficient  humiliation  ?  Would  you  like  me  to 
supplicate  you  not  to  fight  for  that  creature?  And  do 
you  not  feel  the  supreme  outrage  which  that  encoun- 
ter is  to  me?  Moreover,"  she  continued  with  tragical 
solemnity,  "I  did  not  summon  you  to  have  with  you  a 
conversation  as  sad  as  it  is  useless,  but  to  tell  you  my 
resolution.  ...  I  hope  that  you  will  not  oblige  me  to 
resort  for  its  execution  to  the  means  which  the  law  puts 
in  my  power?" 

"I  don't  deserve  to  be  spoken  to  thus,"  said  Boles- 
las,  haughtily. 

"I  will  remain  here  to-night,"  resumed  Maud,  with- 
out heeding  that  reply,  "for  the  last  time.  To-morrow 
evening  I  shall  leave  for  England." 

"You  are  free,"  said  he,  with  a  bow. 

"And  I  shall  take  my  son  with  me,"  she  added. 

"Oi^r  son!"  he  replied,  with  the  composure  of  a  man 
overcome  by  an  access  of  tenderness  and  who  controls 
himself.     "That?    No.     I  forbid  it." 

"You  forbid  it?"  said  she.  "Very  well,  we  will 
appeal  it.  I  knew  that  you  would  force  me,"  she  con- 
tinued, haughtily,  in  her  turn,  "to  have  recourse  to  the 
law.  .  .  .  But  I  shall  not  recoil  before  anything.  In 
betraying  me  as  you  have  done,  you  have  also  betrayed 
our  child.  I  will  not  leave  him  to  you.  You  are  not 
worthy  of  him." 

"Listen,  Maud,"  said  Bolcslas,  sadly,  after  a  pause, 
"remember  that  it  is  perhaps  the  last  time  we  shall 
meet.  .  .  .  To-morrow,  if  I  am  killed,  you  shall  do 
as  you  like.  ...  If  I  live,  I  promise  to  consent  to  any 
arrangement  that  will  be  just.  .  .  .  Wliat  I  ask  of  you 

[280] 


COSMOPOLIS 

is — and  I  have  the  right,  notwithstanding  my  faults — in 
the  name  of  our  early  years  of  wedded  life,  in  the  name 
of  that  son  himself,  to  leave  me  in  a  dififerent  way,  to 
have  a  feeling,  I  don't  say  of  pardon,  but  of  pity." 

"Did  you  have  it  for  me,"  she  replied,  "when  you 
were  following  your  passion  by  way  of  my  heart? 
No!".  .  .  And  she  walked  before  him  in  order  to 
reach  the  door,  fixing  upon  him  eyes  so  haughty  that 
he  involuntarily  lowered  his.  "You  have  no  longer  a 
wife  and  I  have  no  longer  a  husband.  ...  I  am  no 
Madame  Maitland;  I  do  not  avenge  myself  by  means 
of  anonymous  letters  nor  by  denunciation.  .  .  .  But 
to  pardon  you?  .  .  .  Never,  do  you  hear,  never ! " 

With  those  words  she  left  the  room,  with  those  words 
into  which  she  put  all  the  indomitable  energy  of  her 
character.  .  .  .  Boleslas  did  not  essay  to  detain  her. 
When,  an  hour  after  that  horrible  conversation,  his 
valet  came  to  inform  him  that  dinner  was  served,  the 
wretched  man  was  still  in  the  same  place,  his  elbow 
on  the  mantelpiece  and  his  forehead  in  his  hand. 
He  knew  Maud  too  well  to  hope  that  she  would  change 
her  determination,  and  there  was  in  him,  in  spite  of 
his  faults,  his  folly  and  his  complications,  too  much  of 
the  real  gentleman  to  employ  means  of  violence  and 
to  detain  her  forcibly,  when  he  had  erred  so  gravely. 
So  she  went  thus.  If,  just  before,  he  had  exaggerated 
the  expression  of  his  feelings  in  saying,  in  thinking 
rather,  that  he  had  never  ceased  loving  her,  it  was  true 
that  amid  all  his  errors  he  had  maintained  for  her  an 
affection  composed  particularly  of  gratitude,  remorse, 
esteem  and,  it  must  be  said,  of  selfishness. 

[281] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

He  loved  for  the  devotion  of  which  he  was  abso- 
lutel}'  sure,  and  then,  like  many  husbands  who  deceive 
an  irreproachable  wife,  he  was  proud  of  her,  while  un- 
faithful to  her.  She  seemed  to  him  at  once  the  dignity 
and  the  charity  of  his  life.  She  had  remained  in  his 
eyes  the  one  to  whom  he  could  always  return,  the  as- 
sured friend  of  moments  of  trial,  the  haven  after  the 
tempest,  the  moral  peace  when  he  was  weary  of  the 
troubles  of  passion.  What  life  would  he  lead  when 
she  was  gone?  For  she  would  go!  Her  resolution 
was  irrevocable.  All  dropped  from  his  side  at  once. 
The  mistress,  to  whom  he  had  sacrificed  the  noblest 
and  most  loving  heart,  he  had  lost  under  circumstances 
as  abject  as  their  two  years  of  passion  had  been  dis- 
honorable. His  wife  was  about  to  leave  him,  and 
would  he  succeed  in  keeping  his  son  ?  He  had  returned 
to  be  avenged,  and  he  had  not  even  succeeded  in  meet- 
ing his  rival.  That  being  so  impressionable  had  ex- 
perienced, in  the  face  of  so  many  repeated  blows,  a  dis- 
appointment so  absolute  that  he  gladly  looked  forward 
to  the  prospect  of  exposing  himself  to  death  on  the 
following  day,  while  at  the  same  time  a  bitter  flood 
of  rancor  possessed  him  at  the  thought  of  all  the  per- 
sons concerned  in  his  adventure.  He  would  have 
liked  to  crush  Madame  Steno  and  Maitland,  Lydia  and 
Florent — Dorsenne,  too — for  having  given  him  the 
false  word  of  honor,  which  had  strengthened  still  more 
his  thirst  for  vengeance  by  calming  it  for  a  few  hours. 

His  confusion  of  thoughts  was  only  greater  when  he 
was  seated  alone  with  his  son  at  dinner.  That  morning 
he  had  seen  before  him  his  wife's  smiling  face.     The 

[282] 


COSMOrOLlS 

absence  of  her  whom  at  that  moment  he  valued  above 
all  else  was  so  sad  to  him  that  he  ventured  one  last 
attempt,  and  after  the  meal  he  sent  little  I.uc  to  see  if 
his  mother  would  receive  him.  The  child  returned 
with  a  reply  in  the  negative.  "  Mamma  is  resting.  .  .  . 
She  does  not  wish  to  be  disturbed."  So  the  matter 
was  irremissible.  She  would  not  see  her  husband 
until  the  morrow — if  he  lived.  For  vainly  did  Boleslas 
convince  himself  that  afternoon  that  he  had  lost  none 
of  his  skill  in  practising  before  his  admiring  seconds; 
a  duel  is  always  a  lottery.  He  might  be  killed,  and 
if  the  possibility  of  an  eternal  separation  had  not 
moved  the  injured  woman,  what  prayer  would  move 
her?  He  saw  her  in  his  thoughts — her  who  at  that 
moment,  with  blinds  drawn,  all  lights  subdued,  en- 
dured in  the  semi-darkness  that  suffering  which  curses 
but  does  not  pardon.  Ah,  but  that  sight  was  painful 
to  him!  And,  in  order  that  she  might  at  least  know 
how  he  felt,  he  took  their  son  in  his  arms,  and,  pressing 
him  to  his  breast,  said:  *'If  you  see  your  mother  be- 
fore I  do,  you  will  tell  her  that  we  spent  a  very  lonesome 
evening  without  her,  will  you  not?" 

"Why,  what  ails  you?"  exclaimed  the  child.  "You 
have  wet  my  cheeks  with  tears — you  are  weeping!  " 

"You  w^ill  tell  her  that,  too,  promise  me,"  replied  the 
father,  "so  that  she  will  take  good  care  of  herself,  see- 
ing how  we  love  her." 

"But,"  said  the  little  boy,  "she  was  not  ill  when  we 
walked  together  after  breakfast.     She  was  so  gay." 

"I  think,  too,  it  will  be  nothing  serious,"  replied 
Gorka.     He  was  obliged  to  dismiss  his  son  and  to  go 

[283] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

out.  He  felt  so  horribly  sad  that  he  was  physically 
afraid  to  remain  alone  in  the  house.  But  whither 
should  he  go?  Mechanically  he  repaired  to  the  club, 
although  it  was  too  early  to  meet  many  of  the  members 
there.  He  came  upon  Pietrapertosa  and  Cibo,  who 
had  dined  there,  and  who,  seated  on  one  of  the  divans, 
were  conferring  in  whispers  with  the  gravity  of  two 
ambassadors  discussing  the  Bulgarian  or  Egyptian 
question. 

*'You  have  a  very  nervous  air,"  they  said  to  Boles- 
las,  "you  who  were  in  such  good  form  this  after- 
noon." 

"Yes,"  said  Cibo,  "you  should  have  dined  with  us 
as  we  asked  you  to." 

"When  one  is  to  fight  a  duel,"  continued  Pietraper- 
tosa, sententiously,  "one  should  see  neither  one's  wife 
nor  one's  mistress.  Madame  Gorka  suspects  nothing, 
I  hope?" 

"Absolutely  nothing,"  replied  Boleslas;  "you  are 
right.  I  should  have  done  better  not  to  have  left  you. 
But,  here  I  am.  We  will  exorcise  dismal  thoughts  by 
playing  cards  and  supping!" 

"By  playing  cards  and  supping!"  exclaimed  Pietra- 
pertosa. And  your  hand  ?  Think  of  your  hand.  .  .  . 
You  will  tremble,  and  you  will  miss  your  man." 

"A  light  dinner,"  said  Cibo,  "to  bed  at  ten  o'clock, 
up  at  six-thirty,  and  two  eggs  with  a  glass  of  old  port 
is  the  recipe  Machault  gives." 

"And  which  I  shall  not  follow,"  said  Boleslas,  add- 
ing: "I  giA'c  you  my  word  that  if  T  had  no  other  cause 
for  care  than  this  duel,  you  would  not  .see  me  in  this 

[284] 


COSMOPOLIS 

condition."  He  uttered  that  phrase  in  a  tragical  voice, 
the  sincerity  of  which  the  two  Italians  felt.  They 
looked  at  each  other  without  speaking.  They  were 
too  shrewd  and  too  well  aware  of  the  simplest  scandals 
of  Rome  not  to  have  divined  the  veritable  cause  of 
the  encounter  between  Florent  and  Boleslas.  On  the 
other  hand,  they  knew  the  latter  too  well  not  to  mis- 
trust somewhat  his  attitudes.  However,  there  was  such 
simple  emotion  in  his  accent  that  they  spontaneously 
pitied  him,  and,  without  another  word,  they  no  longer 
opposed  the  caprices  of  their  strange  client,  whom  they 
did  not  leave  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning — and 
fortune  favored  them.  For  they  found  themselves  at 
the  end  of  a  game,  recklessly  played,  each  the  richer 
by  two  or  three  hundred  louis  apiece.  That  meant  a 
few  days  more  in  Paris  on  the  next  visit.  They,  too, 
truly  regretted  their  friend's  luck,  saying,  on  separat- 
ing: 

"I  very  much  fear  for  him,"  said  Cibo.  ''Such  luck 
at  gaming,  the  night  before  a  duel— bad  sign,  very  bad 
sign." 

"So  much  the  more  so  that  some  one  was  there," 
replied  Pietrapertosa,  making  with  his  fingers  the  sign 
which  conjures  the  jettiitiira.  For  nothing  in  the 
world  would  he  have  named-  the  personages  against 
whose  evil  eye  he  provided  in  that  manner.  But  Cibo 
understood  him,  and,  drawing  from  his  trousers  pocket 
his  watch,  which  he  fastened  a  Vauglaise  by  a  safety 
chain  to  his  belt,  he  pointed  out  among  the  charms  a 
golden  horn: 

"I  have  not  let  it  go  this  evening,"  said  he.  "The 
[285I 


PAUL  BOURGET 

worst  is,   that   Gorka  will  not  sleep,   and  then,   his 
hand!" 

Only  the  first  of  those  two  prognostics  was  to  be 
verified.  Returning  home  at  that  late  hour,  Boleslas 
did  not  even  retire.  He  employed  the  remainder  of 
the  night  in  writing  a  long  letter  to  his  wife,  one  to 
his  son,  to  be  given  to  him  on  his  eighteenth  birthday, 
all  in  case  of  an  accident.  Then  he  examined  his 
papers  and  he  came  upon  the  package  of  letters  he 
had  received  from  Madame  Steno.  Merely  to  re-read 
a  few  of  them,  and  to  glance  at  the  portraits  of  that 
faithless  mistress  again,  heightened  his  anger  to  such 
a  degree  that  he  enclosed  the  whole  in  a  large  envelope, 
which  he  addressed  to  Lincoln  Maitland.  He  had  no 
sooner  sealed  it  than  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  say- 
ing: "Of  what  use?"  He  raised  the  piece  of  material 
which  stopped  up  the  chimney,  and,  placing  the  en- 
velope on  the  fire-dogs,  he  set  it  on  fire.  He  shook 
with  the  tongs  the  remains  of  that  which  had  been  the 
most  ardent,  the  most  complete  passion  of  his  life, 
and  he  relighted  the  flames  under  the  pieces  of  paper 
still  intact.  The  unreasonable  employment  of  a  night 
which  might  be  his  last  had  scarcely  paled  his  face. 
But  his  friends,  who  knew  him  well,  started  on  seeing 
him  with  that  impassively  sinister  countenance  when 
he  alighted  from  his  phaeton,  at  about  eight  o'clock, 
at  the  inn  selected  for  the  meeting.  He  had  ordered 
the  carriage  the  day  before  to  allay  his  wife's  suspicions 
by  the  pretense  of  taking  one  of  his  usual  morning 
drives.  In  his  mental  confusion  he  had  forgolten  to 
give  a  counter  order,  and  that  accident  caused  him  to 

L286I 


COSMOPOLIS 

escape  the  two  policemen  charged  by  the  questorship 
to  watch  the  Palazzctto  Doria,  on  Lydia  Maitland's 
denunciation.  The  hired  victoria,  which  those  agents 
took,  soon  lost  track  of  the  swift  English  horses, 
driven  as  a  man  of  his  character  and  of  his  mental 
condition  could  drive. 

The  precaution  of  Chapron's  sister  was,  therefore, 
baffled  in  that  direction,  and  she  succeeded  no  better 
with  regard  to  her  brother,  who,  to  avoid  all  explana- 
tion with  Lincoln,  had  gone,  under  the  pretext  of  a 
visit  to  the  country,  to  dine  and  sleep  at  the  hotel.  It 
was  there  that  Montfanon  and  Dorsenne  met  him  to 
conduct  him  to  the  rendezvous  in  the  classical  landau. 
Hardly  had  they  reached  the  eminence  of  the  circus  of 
Maxence,  on  the  Appian  Way,  when  they  were  passed 
by  Boleslas's  phaeton. 

"You  can  rest  very  easy,"  said  Montfanon  to  Flo- 
rent.  "How  can  one  aim  correctly  when  one  tires 
one's  arm  in  that  way?" 

That  had  been  the  only  allusion  to  the  duel  made 
between  the  three  men  during  the  journey,  which  had 
taken  about  an  hour.  Florent  talked  as  he  usually 
did,  asking  all  sorts  of  questions  which  attested  his  care 
for  minute  information — the  most  of  which  might  be 
utilized  by  his  brother-in-law — and  the  Marquis  had 
replied  by  evoking,  with  his  habitual  erudition,  several 
of  the  souvenirs  which  peopled  that  vast  country, 
strewn  with  tombs,  aqueducts,  ruined  villas,  with  the 
line  of  the  Monts  Albains  enclosing  them    beyond. 

Dorsenne  was  silent.  It  was  the  first  affair  at  which 
he  had  assisted,  and  his  nervous  anxiety  was  extreme. 

[287] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

Tragical  presentiments  oppressed  him,  and  at  the 
same  time  he  apprehended  momentarily  that,  Mont- 
fanon's  religious  scruples  reawakening,  he  would  not 
only  have  to  seek  another  second,  but  would  have  to 
defer  a  solution  so  near.  However,  the  struggle  which 
was  taking  place  in  the  heart  of  the  "old  leaguer"  be- 
tween the  gentleman  and  the  Christian,  was  display- 
ed during  the  drive  only  by  an  almost  imperceptible 
gesture.  As  the  carriage  passed  the  entrance  to  the 
catacomb  of  St.  Calixtus,  the  former  soldier  of  the 
Pope  turned  away  his  head.  Then  he  resumed  the 
conversation  with  redoubled  energy,  to  pause  in  his 
turn,  however,  when  the  landau  took,  a  little  beyond 
the  Tomb  of  Caecilia,  a  transverse  road  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Ardeatine  Way.  It  was  there  that  VOsteria 
del  tempo  per  so  was  built,  upon  the  ground  belonging 
to  Cibo,  on  w^hich  the  duel  was  to  take  place. 

Before  VOsteria,  whose  signboard  was  surmounted 
by  the  arms  of  Pope  Innocent  VIII,  three  carriages 
were  already  waiting — Gorka's  phaeton,  a  landau 
which  had  brought  Cibo,  Pietrapertosa  and  the  doc- 
tor, and  a  simple  Iwttc,  in  which  a  porter  had  come. 
That  unusual  number  of  vehicles  seemed  likely  to 
attract  the  attention  of  riflemen  out  for  a  stroll,  but 
Cibo  answered  for  the  discretion  of  the  innkeeper,  who 
indeed  cherished  for  his  master  the  devotion  of  vassal 
to  lord,  .still  common  in  Italy.  The  three  newcomers 
had  no  need  to  make  the  slightest  explanation.  Hardly 
had  they  alighted  from  the  carriage,  when  the  maid  con- 
ducted them  through  the  hall,  where  at  that  moment 
two  huntsmen  were  breakfasting,  their  guns  between 

[288] 


COSMOPOLIS 

their  knees,  and  who,  Hke  true  Romans,  scarcely  deigned 
to  glance  at  the  strangers,  who  passed  from  the  com- 
mon hall  into  a  small  court,  from  that  court,  through  a 
shed,  into  a  large  field  enclosed  by  boards,  with  here 
and  there  a  few  pine-trees. 

That  rather  odd  duelling-ground  had  formerly  served 
Cibo  as  a  paddock.  He  had  essayed  to  increase  his 
slender  income  by  buying  at  a  bargain  some  jaded 
horses,  which  he  intended  fattening  by  means  of  rest 
and  good  fodder,  and  then  selling  to  cabmen,  averag- 
ing a  small  profit.  The  speculation  having  miscar- 
ried, the  place  was  neglected  and  unused,  save  under 
circumstances  similar  to  those  of  this  particular  morning. 

"We  have  arrived  last,"  said  Montfanon,  looking  at 
his  watch;  ''we  are,  however,  five  minutes  ahead  of 
time.  Remember,"  he  added  in  a  low  voice,  turning 
to  Florent,  "to  keep  the  body  well  in  the  background," 
these  words  being  followed  by  other  directions. 

"Thanks,"  replied  Florent,  who  looked  at  the 
Marquis  and  Dorsenne  with  a  glance  which  he  ordi- 
narily had  only  for  Lincoln,  "and  you  know  that,  what- 
ever may  come,  I  thank  you  for  all  from  the  depths  of 
my  heart." 

The  young  man  put  so  much  grace  in  that  adieu, 
his  courage  was  so  simple,  his  sacrifice  for  his  brother- 
in-law  so  magnanimous  and  natural — in  fact,  for  two 
days  both  seconds  had  so  fully  appreciated  the  charm 
of  that  disposition,  absolutely  free  from  thoughts  of 
self — that  they  pressed  his  hand  with  the  emotion  of 
true  friends.  They  were  themselves,  moreover,  inter- 
ested, and  at  once  began  the  series  of  preparations 
19  [  289  ] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

without  which  the  role  of  assistant  would  be  physically 
insupportable  to  persons  endowed  with  a  little  sensi- 
bility. In  experienced  hands  like  those  of  Montfanon, 
Cibo  and  Pietrapertosa,  such  preliminaries  are  speedily 
arranged.  The  code  is  as  exact  as  the  step  of  a  ballet. 
Twenty  minutes  after  the  entrance  of  the  last  arrivals, 
the  two  adversaries  were  face  to  face.  The  signal  was 
given.  The  two  shots  were  fired  simultaneously,  and 
Florent  sank  upon  the  grass  which  covered  the  en- 
closure. He  had  a  bullet  in  his  thigh. 
.  Dorsenne  has  often  related  since,  as  a  singular  trait 
of  literary  mania,  that  at  the  moment  the  wounded 
man  fell  he,  himself,  notwithstanding  the  anxiety 
which  possessed  him,  had  watched  Montfanon,  to 
study  him.  He  adds  that  never  had  he  seen  a  face 
express  such  sorrowful  piety  as  that  of  the  man  who, 
scorning  all  human  respect,  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross.  It  was  the  devotee  of  the  catacombs,  who  had 
left  the  altar  of  the  martyrs  to  accomplish  a  work  of 
charity,  then  carried  away  by  anger  so  far  as  to  place 
himself  under  the  necessity  of  participating  in  a  duel, 
who  was,  no  doubt,  asking  pardon  of  God.  What  re- 
morse was  stirring  within  the  heart  of  the  fervent, 
almost  mystical  Christian,  so  strangely  mixed  up  in  an 
adventure  of  that  kind?  He  had  at  least  this  com- 
fort, that  after  the  first  examination,  anrl  when  they 
had  borne  Florent  into  a  room  prepared  hastily  by  the 
care  of  Cibo,  the  doctor  declared  himself  satisfied. 
The  ball  could  even  be  removed  at  once,  and  as  neither 
the  bone  nor  the  muscles  had  been  injured  it  was  a 
matter  of  a  few  weeks  at  the  most. 

[290] 


COSMOPOLIS 

"All  that  now  remains  for  us,"  concluded  Cibo,  who 
had  brought  back  the  news,  "is  to  draw  up  our  ofiicial 
report." 

At  that  instant,  and  as  the  witnesses  were  preparing 
to  reenter  the  house  for  the  last  formality,  an  incident 
occurred,  very  unexpected,  which  was  to  transform  the 
encounter,  up  to  that  time  so  simple,  into  one  of  those 
memorable  duels  which  are  talked  over  at  clubs  and  in 
armories.  If  Pietrapertosa  and  Cibo  had  ceased  since 
morning  to  believe  in  the  jettalura  of  the  "some  one" 
whom  neither  had  named,  it  must  be  acknowledged 
that  they  were  very  unjust,  for  the  good  fortune  of 
having  gained  something  wherewith  to  swell  their 
Parisian  purses  was  surely  naught  by  the  side  of  this 
— to  have  to  discuss  with  the  Cavals,  the  Machaults 
and  other  professionals  the  case,  almost  unprecedented, 
in  which  they  were  participants. 

Boleslas  Gorka,  who,  when  once  his  adversary  had 
fallen,  paced  to  and  fro  without  seeming  to  care  as  to 
the  gravity  of  the  wound,  suddenly  approached  the 
group  formed  by  the  four  men,  and  in  a  tone  of  voice 
which  did  not  predict  the  terrible  aggression  in  which 
he  was  about  to  indulge,  he  said: 

"One  moment,  gentlemen.  I  desire  to  say  a  few 
words  in  your  presence  to  Monsieur  Dorsenne." 

"I  am  at  your  service,  Gorka,"  replied  Julien,  who 
did  not  suspect  the  hostile  intention  of  his  old  friend. 
He  did  not  divine  the  form  which  that  hostility  was 
about  to  take,  but  he  had  always  upon  his  mind  his 
word  of  honor  falsely  given,  and  he  was  prepared  to 
answer  for  it. 

[291] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"It  will  not  take  much  time,  sir,"  continued  Bo- 
leslas,  still  with  the  same  insolently  formal  politeness, 
"you  know  we  have  an  account  to  settle.  .  .  .  But  as 
I  have  some  cause  not  to  believe  in  the  validity  of  your 
honor,  I  should  like  to  remove  all  cause  of  evasion." 
And  before  any  one  could  interfere  in  the  unheard-of 
proceedings  he  had  raised  his  glove  and  struck  Dor- 
senne  in  the  face.  As  Gorka  spoke,  the  writer  turned 
pale.  He  had  not  the  time  to  reply  to  the  audacious 
insult  offered  him  by  a  similar  one,  for  the  three  wit- 
nesses of  the  scene  cast  themselves  between  him  and 
his  aggressor.  He,  however,  pushed  them  aside  with 
a  resolute  air. 

"Remember,  sirs,"  said  he,  "that  by  preventing  me 
from  inflicting  on  Monsieur  Gorka  the  punishment  he 
deserves,  you  force  me  to  obtain  another  reparation. 
And  I  demand  it  immediately.  ...  I  will  not  leave 
this  place,"  he  continued,  "without  having  obtained 
it." 

"Nor  I,  without  having  given  it  to  you,"  replied 
Boleslas.     "It  is  all  I  ask." 

"No,  Dorscnnc,"  cried  Montfanon,  who  had  been 
the  first  to  seize  the  raised  arm  of  the  writer,  "you 
shall  not  fight  thus.  First,  you  have  no  right.  It 
requires  at  least  twenty-four  hours  between  the  provo- 
cation and  the  encounter.  .  .  .  And  you,  sirs,  must 
not  agree  to  serve  as  seconds  for  Monsieur  Gorka, 
after  he  has  failed  in  a  manner  so  grave  in  all  the  rules 
of  the  ground.  ...  If  you  lend  yourselves  to  it,  it  is 
})arbarous,  it  is  madness,  whatsoever  you  like.  It  is 
no  longer  a  (kicl." 

[  292  ] 


COSMOPOIJS 

"I  repeat,  Montfanon,"  replied  Dorsenne,  "that  I 
will  not  leave  here  and  that  I  will  not  allow  Monsieur 
Gorka  to  leave  until  I  have  obtained  the  reparation  to 
which  I  feel  I  have  the  right." 

"And  I  repeat  that  I  am  at  Monsieur  Dorsenne's 
service,"  replied  Boleslas. 

"Very  well,  sirs,"  said  Montfanon.  "There  only 
remains  for  us  to  leave  you  to  arrange  it  one  with  the 
other  as  you  wish,  and  for  us  to  withdraw.  ...  Is  not 
that  your  opinion?"  he  continued,  addressing  Cibo 
and  Pietrapertosa,  who  did  not  reply  immediately. 

"Certainly,"  finally  said  one;   "the  case  is  difficult." 

"There  are,  however,  precedents,"  insinuated  the 
other. 

"Yes,"  resumed  Cibo,  "if  it  were  only  the  two  suc- 
cessive duels  of  Henry  de  Pene." 

"Which  furnish  authority,"  concluded  Pietraper- 
tosa. 

"Authority  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  again  ex- 
claimed Montfanon.  "I  know,  for  my  part,  that  I 
am  not  here  to  assist  at  a  butchery,  and  that  I  will  not 
assist  at  it.  .  .  .  I  am  going,  sirs,  and  I  expect  you  will 
do  the  same,  for  I  do  not  suppose  you  would  select 
coachmen  to  play  the  part  of  seconds.  .  .  .  Adieu, 
Dorsenne.  .  .  .  You  do  not  doubt  my  friendship  for 
you.  ...  I  think  I  am  giving  you  a  veritable  proof 
of  it  by  not  permitting  you  to  fight  under  such  condi- 
tions." 

When  the  old  nobleman  reentered  the  inn,  he 
waited  ten  minutes,  persuaded  that  his  departure 
would  determine  that  of  Cibo  and  of  Pietrapertosa, 

[293] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

and  that  the  new  affair,  follovN-ing  so  strangely  upon 
the  other,  would  be  deferred  until  the  next  day.  He 
had  not  told  an  untruth.  It  was  his  strong  friendship 
for  Julien  which  had  made  him  apprehend  a  duel  or- 
ganized in  that  way,  under  the  influence  of  a  righteous 
indignation.  Gorka's  unjustifiable  violence  would  cer- 
tainly not  permit  a  second  encounter  to  be  avoided. 
But  as  the  insult  had  been  outrageous,  it  was  the  more 
essential  that  the  conditions  should  be  fixed  calmly  and 
after  grave  consideration.  To  divert  his  impatience, 
Montfanon  bade  the  innkeeper  point  out  to  him 
whither  they  had  carried  Florent,  and  he  ascended  to 
the  tiny  room,  where  the  doctor  was  dressing  the 
wounded  man's  leg. 

"You  see,"  said  the  latter,  with  a  smile,  "I  shall 
have  to  limp  a  little  for  a  month.  .  .  .  And  Dorsenne  ?" 

"He  is  all  right,  I  hope,"  replied  Montfanon,  adding, 
with  ill-humor:  "Dorsenne  is  a  fool;  that  is  what 
Dorsenne  is.  And  Gorka  is  a  wild  beast;  that  is 
what  Gorka  is."  And  he  related  the  episode  which 
had  just  taken  place  to  the  two  men,  who  were  so  sur- 
prised that  the  doctor,  bandage  in  hand,  paused  in  his 
work.  "And  they  wish  to  fight  there  at  once,  like 
redskins.  Why  not  scalp  one  another  ?  .  .  .  And  that 
Cibo  and  that  Pietrapcrtosa  would  have  consented  to 
the  duel  if  I  had  not  opposed  it!  Fortunately  they 
lack  two  seconds,  and  it  is  not  easy  to  find  in  this 
district  two  men  who  can  sign  an  official  report,  for  it 
is  the  mode  nowadays  to  have  those  paltry  scraps  of 
l)apcr.  One  of  my  friends  and  myself  had  two  such 
witnesses  at  twenty  francs  apiece.     But  that  was  in 

[  2(M  1 


COSMOPOI.IS 

Paris  in 'sixty-two."  And  he  entered  upon  the  recital 
of  the  old-time  duel,  to  calm  his  anxiety,  which  burst 
forth  again  in  these  words:  "It  seems  they  do  not 
decide  to  separate  so  quickly.  It  is  not,  however,  pos- 
sible that  they  will  fight.  .  .  .  Can  we  see  them  from 
here?"  He  approached  the  window,  which  indeed 
looked  upon  the  enclosure.  The  sight  which  met  his 
eyes  caused  the  excellent  man  to  stammer.  .  .  .  "The 
miserable  men!  ...  It  is  monstrous.  .  .  .  They  are 
mad.  .  .  .  They  have  found  seconds.  .  .  .  Whom  have 
they  taken?  .  .  .  Those  two  huntsmen!  .  .  .  Ah,  my 
God!  My  God!".  .  .  He  could  say  no  more.  The 
doctor  had  hastened  to  the  window  to  see  what  was 
passing,  regardless  of  the  fact  that  Florent  dragged 
himself  thither  as  well.  Did  they  remain  there  a  few 
seconds,  fifteen  minutes  or  longer?  They  could  never 
tell,  so  greatly  were  they  terrified. 

As  Montfanon  had  anticipated,  the  conditions  of 
the  duel  were  terrible.  For  Pietrapertosa,  who  seemed 
to  direct  the  combat,  after  having  measured  a  space 
sufficiently  long,  of  about  fifty  feet,  was  in  the  act  of 
tracing  in  the  centre  two  lines  scarcely  ten  or  twelve 
metres  apart. 

"They  have  chosen  the  duel  a  marche  interrompue,^^ 
groaned  the  veteran  duellist,  whose  knowledge  of  the 
ground  did  not  deceive  him.  Dorsenne  and  Gorka, 
once  placed,  face  to  face,  commenced  indeed  to  ad- 
vance, now  raising,  now  lowering  their  weapons  with 
the  terrible  slowness  of  two  adversaries  resolved  not 
to  miss  their  mark. 

A  shot  was  fired.  It  was  by  Boleslas-  Dorsenne 
[  295  ] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

was  unharmed.  Several  steps  had  still  to  be  taken 
in  order  to  reach  the  limit.  He  took  them,  and  he 
paused  to  aim  at  his  opponent  with  so  evident  an  inten- 
tion of  killing  him  that  they  could  distinctly  hear  Cibo 
cry: 

"Fire!    For  God's  sake,  fire!" 

Julien  pressed  the  trigger,  as  if  in  obedience  to  that 
order,  incorrect,  but  too  natural  to  be  even  noticed. 
The  weapon  was  discharged,  and  the  three  spectators 
at  the  window  of  the  bedroom  uttered  three  simultane- 
ous exclamations  on  seeing  Gorka's  arm  fall  and  his 
hand  drop  the  pistol. 

"It  is  nothing,"  cried  the  doctor,  "but  a  broken 
arm." 

"The  good  Lord  has  been  better  to  us  than  we  de- 
serve," said  the  Marquis. 

"Now,  at  least,  the  madman  will  be  quieted.  .  .  . 
Brave  Dorsenne!"  cried  Florent,  who  thought  of  his 
brother-in-law  and  who  added  gayly,  leaning  on  Mont- 
fanon  and  the  doctor  in  order  to  reach  the  couch: 
"Finish  quickly,  doctor,  they  will  need  you  belovy  im- 
mediately." 


[296] 


CHAPTER  IX 

LUCID  ALBA 

^HE  doctor  had  diagnosed  the  case 
correctly.  Dorsenne's  ball  had  struck 
Gorka  below  the  wrist.  Two  centi- 
metres more  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left,  and  undoubtedly  Boleslas  would 
have  been  killed.  He  escaped  with 
a  fracture  of  the  forearm,  which 
would  confine  him  for  a  few  days 
to  his  room,  and  which  would  force  him  to  submit  for 
several  weeks  to  the  annoyance  of  a  sling.  When  he 
was  taken  home  and  his  personal  physician,  hastily 
summoned,  made  him  a  bandage  and  prescribed  for 
the  first  few  days  bed  and  rest,  he  experienced  a  new 
access  of  rage,  which  exceeded  the  paroxysms  of  the 
day  before  and  of  that  morning.  All  parts  of  his  soul, 
the  noblest  as  well  as  the  meanest,  bled  at  once  and 
caused  him  to  suffer  with  another  agony  than  that 
occasioned  by  his  wounded  arm.  Was  he  satisfied  in 
the  desire,  almost  morbid,  to  figure  in  the  eyes  of 
those  who  knew  him  as  an  extraordinary  personage? 
He  had  hastened  from  Poland  through  Europe  as  an 
avenger  of  his  betrayed  love,  and  he  had  begun  by 
missing  his  rival.  Instead  of  provoking  him  imme- 
diately in  the  salon  of  Villa  Steno,  he  had  waited,  and 

[297] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

another  had  had  time  to  substitute  himself  for  the 
one  he  had  wished  to  chastise.  The  other,  whose  death 
would  at  least  have  given  a  tragical  issue  to  the  ad- 
venture, Boleslas  had  scarcely  touched.  He  had  hoped 
in  striking  Dorsenne  to  execute  at  least  one  traitor 
whom  he  considered  as  having  trifled  with  the  most 
sacred  of  confidences.  He  had  simply  succeeded  in 
giving  that  false  friend  occasion  to  humiliate  him  bit- 
terly, leaving  out  of  the  question  that  he  had  rendered 
it  impossible  to  fight  again  for  many  days.  None  of 
the  persons  who  had  wronged  him  would  be  punished 
for  some  time,  neither  his  coarse  and  cowardly  rival, 
nor  his  perfidious  mistress,  nor  monstrous  Lydia  Mait- 
land,  whose  infamy  he  had  just  discovered.  They 
were  all  happy  and  triumphant,  on  that  lovely,  radiant 
May  day,  while  he  tossed  on  a  bed  of  pain,  and  it  was 
proven  too  clearly  to  him  that  very  afternoon  by  his 
two  seconds,  the  only  visitors  whom  he  had  not  denied 
admission,  and  who  came  to  see  him  about  five  o'clock. 
They  came  from  the  races  of  Tor  di  Quinto,  which  had 
taken  place  that  day. 

"All  is  well,"  began  Cibo,  "I  will  guarantee  that 
no  one  has  talked.  ...  I  have  told  you  before,  I  am 
sure  of  my  innkeeper,  and  we  have  paid  the  witnesses 
and  the  coachman. 

''Were  Madame  Stcno  and  her  daughter  at  the 
races?"  interrupted  Boleslas. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Roman,  whom  the  abruptness  of 
the  question  surprised  too  much  for  him  to  evade  it 
with  his  habitual  diplomacy. 

"With  whom?"  a.sked  the  wounded  man. 
[298] 


COSMOPOLIS 

"Alone,  that  time,"  replied  Cibo,  with  an  eagerness 
in  which  Boleslas  distinguished  an  intention  to  deceive 
him. 

"And  Madame  Maitland?" 

"She  was  there,  too,  with  her  husband,"  said  Pietra- 
pertosa,  heedless  of  Cibo's  warning  glances,  "and  all 
Rome  besides,"  adding:  "Do  you  know  the  engage- 
ment of  Ardea  and  little  Hafner  is  public  ?  They  were 
all  three  there,  the  betrothed  and  the  father,  and  so 
happy!  I  vow,  it  was  fine.  Cardinal  Guerillot  bap- 
tized pretty  Fanny." 

"And  Dorsenne?"  again  questioned  the  invalid. 

"He  was  there,"  said  Cibo.  "You  will  be  vexed 
when  I  tell  you  of  the  reply  he  dared  to  make  us.  We 
asked  him  how  he  had  managed — nervous  as  he  is — 
to  aim  at  you  as  he  aimed,  without  trembling.  For 
he  did  not  tremble.  And  guess  what  he  replied? 
That  he  thought  of  a  recipe  of  Stendhal's — to  recite 
from  memory  four  Latin  verses,  before  firing.  'And 
might  one  know  what  you  chose?'  I  asked  of  him. 
Thereupon  he  repeated:  'Tityre,  hi  patulcE  recubansV^ 

"It  is  a  case  which  recalls  the  word  of  Casal," 
interrupted  Pietrapertosa,  "when  that  snob  of  a  Figon 
recommended  to  us  at  the  club  his  varnish  manu- 
factured from  a  recipe  of  a  valet  of  the  Prince  of  Wales. 
If  the  young  man  is  not  settled  by  us,  I  shall  be  sorry 
for  him." 

Although  the  two  confreres  had  repeated  that  medi- 
ocre pleasantry  a  hundred  times,  they  laughed  at  the 
top  of  their  sonorous  voices  and  succeeded  in  entirely 
unnerving  the  injured  man.     He  gave  as  a  pretext  his 

[299] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

need  of  rest  to  dismiss  the  fine  fellows,  of  whose  sym- 
pathy he  was  assured,  whom  he  had  just  found  loyal 
and  devoted,  but  who  caused  him  pain  in  conjuring 
up,  in  answer  to  his  question,  the  images  of  all  his 
enemies.  When  one  is  suffering  from  a  certain  sort 
of  pain,  remarks  like  those  naively  exchanged  between 
the  two  Roman  imitators  of  Casal  are  intolerable  to 
the  hearer.  One  desires  to  be  alone  to  feed  upon,  at 
least  in  peace,  the  bitter  food,  the  exasperating  and 
inefficacious  rancor  against  people  and  against  fate, 
with  which  Gorka  at  that  moment  felt  his  heart  to  be 
so  full.  The  presence  of  his  former  mistress  at  the 
races,  and  on  that  afternoon,  w^ounded  him  more 
cruelly  than  the  rest.  He  did  not  doubt  that  she 
knew  through  Maitland,  himself,  certainly  informed  by 
Chapron,  of  the  two  duels  and  of  his  injury.  It  was 
on  her  account  that  he  had  fought,  and  that  very 
day  she  appeared  in  public,  smiling,  coquetting,  as  if 
two  years  of  passion  had  not  united  their  lives,  as  if 
he  were  to  her  merely  a  social  acquaintance,  a  guest 
at  her  dinners  and  her  soirees.  He  knew  her  habits 
so  well,  and  how  eagerly,  when  she  loved,  she  drank 
in  the  presence  of  him  she  loved.  No  doubt  she  had 
an  appointment  on  the  race-course  with  Maitland,  as 
she  had  formerly  had  with  him,  and  the  painter  had 
gone  thither  when  he  should  have  cared  for  his  coura- 
geous, his  noble  brother-in-law,  whom  he  had  allowed 
to  fight  for  him!  What  a  worthy  lover  the  selfish  and 
brutal  American  was  of  that  vile  creature!  The  image 
of  the  happy  couple  tortured  Rolcslas  with  the  bitter- 
est jealousy  intermingled  with  di.sgu.st,  and,  by  con- 

[  300  J 


COSMOPOLIS 

trast,  he  thought  of  his  own  wife,  the  proud  and  tender 
Maud  whom  he  had  lost. 

He  pictured  to  himself  other  illnesses  when  he  had 
seen  that  beautiful  nurse  by  his  bedside.  He  saw  again 
the  true  glance  with  which  that  wife,  so  shamefully 
betrayed,  looked  at  him,  the  movements  of  her  loyal 
hands,  which  yielded  to  no  one  the  care  of  waiting 
upon  him.  To-day  she  had  allowed  him  to  go  to  a 
duel  without  seeing  him.  He  had  returned.  She  had 
not  even  inquired  as  to  his  wound.  The  doctor  had 
dressed  it  without  her  presence,  and  all  that  he  knew 
of  her  was  what  he  learned  from  their  child.  For  he 
sent  for  Luc.  He  explained  to  him  his  broken  arm, 
as  had  been  agreed  upon  with  his  friends,  by  a  fall 
on  the  staircase,  and  little  Luc  replied: 

"When  will  you  join  us,  then?  Mamma  says  we 
leave  for  England  this  evening  or  in  the  morning. 
All  the  trunks  are  almost  ready." 

That  evening  or  to-morrow?  So  Maud  was  going 
to  execute  her  threat.  She  was  going  away  forever, 
and  without  an  explanation.  He  could  not  even  plead 
his  cause  once  more  to  the  woman  who  certainly  would 
not  respond  to  another  appeal,  since  she  had  found, 
in  her  outraged  pride,  the  strength  to  be  severe,  when 
he  was  in  danger  of  death.  In  the  face  of  that  evi- 
dence of  the  desertion  of  all  connected  with  him, 
Boleslas  suffered  one  of  those  accesses  of  discourage- 
ment, deep,  absolute,  irremediable,  in  which  one  longs 
to  sleep  forever.  He  asked  himself:  "Were  I  to  try 
one  more  step?^^  and  he  replied:  "She  will  not  .^"  when 
his  valet  entered  with  word  that  the  Countess  desired 

[301] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

to  speak  with  him.  His  agitation  was  so  extreme 
that,  for  a  second,  he  fancied  it  was  with  regard  to 
Madame  Steno,  and  he  was  almost  afraid  to  see  his 
wife  enter. 

Without  any  doubt,  the  emotions  undergone  during 
the  past  few  days  had  been  very  great.  He  had,  how- 
ever, experienced  none  more  violent,  even  beneath  the 
pistol  raised  by  Dorsenne,  than  that  of  seeing  advance 
to  his  bed  the  embodiment  of  his  remorse.  Maud's 
face,  in  which  ordi-narily  glowed  the  beauty  of  a  blood 
quickened  by  the  English  habits  of  fresh  air  and  daily 
exercise,  showed  undeniable  traces  of  tears,  of  sadness, 
and  of  insomnia.  The  pallor  of  the  cheeks,  the  dark 
circles  beneath  the  eyes,  the  dryness  of  the  lips  and 
their  bitter  expression,  the  feverish  glitter,  above  all, 
in  the  eyes,  related  more  eloquently  than  words  the 
terrible  agony  of  which  she  was  the  victim.  The  past 
twenty-four  hours  had  acted  upon  her  like  certain 
long  illnesses,  in  which  it  seems  that  the  very  essence 
of  the  organism  is  altered.  She  was  another  person. 
The  rapid  metamorphosis,  so  tragical  and  so  striking, 
caused  Bolcslas  to  forget  his  own  anguish.  He  ex- 
perienced nothing  but  one  great  regret  when  the  wom- 
an, so  visibly  bowed  down  by  grief,  was  seated,  and 
when  he  saw  in  her  eyes  the  look  of  implacable  cold- 
ness, even  through  the  fever,  before  which  he  had 
recoiled  the  day  before.  But  she  was  there,  and  her 
unh()j)e(l-for  presence  was  to  the  young  man,  even 
under  the  circumstances,  an  infinite  consolation.  He, 
therefore,  said,  with  an  almost  childish  grace,  which 
he  could  assume  when  he  desired  to  please: 

[302I 


COSMOPOLIS 

"You  recognized  the  fact  that  it  would  be  too  cruel 
of  you  to  go  away  without  seeing  me  again.  I  should 
not  have  dared  to  ask  it  of  you,  and  yet  it  was  the 
only  pleasure  I  could  have.  ...  I  thank  you  for  hav- 
ing given  it  to  me." 

"Do  not  thank  me,"  replied  Maud,  shaking  her 
head,  "it  is  not  on  your  account  that  I  am  here.  It 
is  from  duty.  .  .  .  Let  me  speak,"  she  continued, 
stopping  by  a  gesture  her  husband's  reply,  "you  can 
answer  me  afterward.  .  .  .  Had  it  only  been  a  ques- 
tion of  you  and  of  me,  I  repeat,  I  should  not  have 
seen  you  again.  .  .  .  But,  as  I  told  you  yesterday, 
we  have  a  son." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Boleslas,  sadly.  "It  is  to  make 
me  still  more  wretched  that  you  have  come.  .  .  . 
You  should  remember,  however,  that  I  am  in  no  con- 
dition to  discuss  with  you  so  cruel  a  question.  ...  I 
thought  I  had  already  said  that  I  would  not  disregard 
your  rights  on  condition  that  you  did  not  disregard 
mine." 

"It  is  not  of  my  rights  that  I  wish  to  speak,  nor  of 
yours,"  interrupted  Maud,  "but  of  his,  the  only  ones 
of  importance.  When  I  left  you  yesterday,  I  was 
suffering  too  severely  to  feel  anything  but  my  pain. 
It  was  then  that,  in  my  mental  agony,  I  recalled  words 
repeated  to  me  by  my  father:  ^When  one  suffers,  he 
should  look  his  grief  in  the  face,  and  if  will  always 
teach  him  something.''  I  was  ashamed  of  my  weakness, 
and  I  looked  my  grief  in  the  face.  It  taught  me, 
first,  to  accept  it  as  a  just  punishment  for  having 
married  against  the  advice  and  wishes  of  my  father." 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"Ah,  do  not  abjure  our  past!"  cried  the  young 
man;  "the  past  which  has  remained  so  dear  to  me 
through  all." 

"No,  I  do  not  abjure  it,"  replied  Maud,  "for  it  was 
on  recurring  to  it— it  was  on  returning  to  my  early 
impressions — that  I  could  find  not  an  excuse,  but  an 
explanation  of  your  conduct.  I  remembered  what 
you  related  to  me  of  the  misfortunes  of  your  child- 
hood and  of  your  youth,  and  how  you  had  grown  up 
between  your  father  and  your  mother,  passing  six 
months  with  one,  six  months  with  the  other — not  car- 
ing for,  not  being  able  to  judge  either  of  them — forced 
to  hide  from  one  your  feelings  for  the  other.  I  saw 
for  the  first  time  that  your  parents'  separation  had 
the  effect  of  saddening  your  heart  at  that  epoch.  It 
is  that  which  perverted  your  character.  .  .  .  And  I 
read  in  advance  Luc's  history  in  yours.  .  .  .  Listen, 
Bolcslas!  I  speak  to  you  as  I  would  speak  before 
God!  My  first  feeling  when  that  thought  presented 
itself  to  my  mind  was  not  to  resume  life  with  you; 
such  a  life  would  be  henceforth  too  bitter.  No,  it  was 
to  say  to  myself,  /  will  have  my  son  to  myself.  He 
shall  feel  my  influence  alone.  I  saw  you  set  out  this 
morning — set  out  to  insult  mc  once  more,  to  sacrifice 
mc  once  more !  If  you  had  been  truly  repentant  would 
you  have  offered  me  that  last  afi'ront?  And  when 
you  returned — when  they  informed  mc  that  you  had 
a  broken  arm — I  wished  to  tell  the  little  one  myself 
that  you  were  ill.  ...  I  saw  how  much  he  loved  you, 
I  discovered  what  a  place  you  already  occupied  in  his 
heart,  and  I  comprehended  that,  even  if  the  law  gave 

[304] 


COSMOPOLIS 

him  to  me,  as  I  know  it  would,  his  childhood  would 
be  like  yours,  his  youth  like  your  youth. 

"Then,"  she  went  on,  with  an  accent  in  which  emo- 
tion struggled  through  her  pride,  "I  did  not  feel  justi- 
fied in  destroying  the  respect  so  deep,  the  love  so  true, 
he  bears  you,  and  I  have  come  to  say  to  you:  You 
have  wronged  me  greatly.  You  have  killed  within 
me  something  that  will  never  come  to  Hfe  again.  I 
feel  that  for  years  I  shall  carry  a  weight  on  my  mind 
and  on  my  heart  at  the  thought  that  you  could  have 
betrayed  me  as  you  have.  But  I  feel  that  for  our 
boy  this  separation  on  which  I  had  resolved  is  too 
perilous.  I  feel  that  I  shall  fmd  in  the  certainty  of 
avoiding  a  moral  danger  for  him  the  strength  to  con- 
tinue a  common  existence,  and  I  will  continue  it. 
But  human  nature  is  human  nature,  and  that  strength 
I  can  have  only  on  one  condition." 

"And  that  is?"  asked  Boleslas.  Maud's  speech, 
for  it  was  a  speech  carefully  reflected  upon,  every 
phrase  of  which  had  been  weighed  by  that  scrupulous 
conscience,  contrasted  strongly  in  its  lucid  reasoning 
with  the  state  of  nervous  excitement  in  which  he  had 
lived  for  several  days.  He  had  been  more  pained  by 
it  than  he  would  have  been  by  passionate  reproaches. 
At  the  same  time  he  had  been  moved  by  the  reference 
to  his  son's  love  for  him,  and  he  felt  that  if  he  did 
not  become  reconciled  with  Maud  at  that  moment  his 
future  domestic  life  would  be  ended.  There  was  a 
little  of  cacli  sentiment  in  the  few  words  he  added  to 
the  anxiety  of  his  question.  "Although  you  have 
spoken  to  me  very  severely,  and  although  you  might 
20  [  305  ] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

have  said  the  same  thing  in  other  terms,  although, 
above  all,  it  is  very  painful  to  me  to  have  you  condemn 
my  entire  character  on  one  single  error,  I  love  you,  I 
love  my  son,  and  I  agree  in  advance  to  your  con- 
ditions. I  esteem  your  character  too  much  to  doubt 
that  they  will  be  reconcilable  with  my  dignity.  As 
for  the  duel  of  this  morning, "  he  added,  ''you  know  very 
well  that  it  was  too  late  to  withdraw  without  dishonor. " 

''I  should  like  your  promise,  first  of  all,"  replied 
Madame  Gorka,  who  did  not  answer  his  last  remark, 
"that  during  the  time  in  which  you  are  obliged  to 
keep  your  room  no  one  shall  be  admitted.  ...  I 
could  not  bear  that  creature  in  my  house,  nor  any  one 
who  would  speak  to  me  or  to  you  of  her." 

"I  promise,"  said  the  young  man,  who  felt  a  flood 
of  warmth  enter  his  soul  at  the  first  proof  that  the 
jealousy  of  the  loving  woman  still  existed  beneath  the 
indignation  of  the  wife.  And  he  added,  with  a  smile, 
"That  will  not  be  a  great  sacrifice.     And  then?" 

"Then?  .  .  .  That  the  doctor  will  permit  us  to  go 
to  England.  We  will  leave  orders  for  the  manage- 
ment of  things  during  our  absence.  We  will  go  this 
winter  wherever  you  like,  but  not  to  this  house;  never 
again  to  this  city." 

"That  is  a  promise,  too,"  said  Boleslas,  "and  that 
will  be  no  great  sacrifice  either;  and  then?" 

"And  then,"  said  she  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  ashamed 
of  herself.  "You  must  never  write  to  her,  you  must 
never  try  lo  find  out  what  has  become  of  her." 

"I  give  you  my  word,"  replied  Boleslas,  taking  her 
hand,  and  adding:    "And  then?" 

[30M 


COSMOPOLIS 

"There  is  no  then,^^  said  she,  withdrawing  her  hand, 
but  gently.  And  she  began  to  realize  herself  her  prom- 
ise of  pardon,  for  she  rearranged  the  pillows  under 
the  wounded  man's  head,  while  he  resumed: 

''Yes,  my  noble  Maud,  there  is  a  then.  It  is  that  I 
shall  prove  to  you  how  much  truth  there  was  in  my 
words  of  yesterday,  in  my  assurance  that  I  love  you 
in  spite  of  my  faults.  It  is  the  mother  who  returns 
to  me  to-day.  But  I  want  my  wife,  my  dear  wife, 
and  I  shall  win  her  back." 

She  made  no  reply.  She  experienced,  on  hearing 
him  pronounce  those  last  words  with  a  transfigured 
face,  an  emotion  which  did  not  vanish.  She  had 
acquired,  beneath  the  shock  of  her  great  sorrow,  an 
intuition  too  deep  of  her  husband's  nature,  and  that 
facility,  which  formerly  charmed  her  by  rendering  her 
anxious,  now  inspired  her  with  horror.  That  man 
with  the  mobile  and  complaisant  conscience  had  al- 
ready forgiven  himself.  It  sufficed  him  to  conceive 
the  plan  of  a  reparation  of  years,  and  to  respect  himself 
for  it — as  if  that  was  really  sufficient^or  the  difficult 
task.  At  least  during  the  eight  days  which  lapsed 
between  that  conversation  and  their  departure  he 
strictly  observed  the  promise  he  had  given  his  wife. 
In  vain  did  Cibo,  Pietrapertosa,  Hafner,  Ardea  try  to 
see  him.  When  the  train  which  bore  them  away 
steamed  out  he  asked  his  wife,  with  a  pride  that  time 
justified  by  deeds: 

"Are  you  satisfied  with  me?" 

"I  am  satisfied  that  we  have  left  Rome,"  said  she, 
evasively,  and  it  was  true  in  two  senses  of  the  word: 

[307] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

First  of  all,  because  she  did  not  delude  herself  with 
regard  to  the  return  of  the  moral  energy  of  which 
Boleslas  was  so  proud.  She  knew  that  his  variable 
will  was  at  the  mercy  of  the  first  sensation.  Then, 
what  she  had  not  confessed  to  her  husband,  the  sorrow 
of  a  broken  friendship  was  joined  in  her  to  the  sorrows 
of  a  betrayed  wife.  The  sudden  discovery  of  the 
infamy  of  Alba's  mother  had  not  destroyed  her  strong 
affection  for  the  young  girl,  and  during  the  entire  week, 
busy  with  her  preparations  for  a  final  departure,  she 
had  not  ceased  to  wonder  anxiously:  "What  will  she 
think  of  my  silence?  .  .  .  What  has  her  mother  told 
her?  .  .  .  What  has  she  divined ? " 

She  had  loved  the  "poor  little  soul,"  as  she  called 
the  Contessina  in  her  pretty  English  term.  She  had 
devoted  to  her  the  friendship  peculiar  to  young  wom- 
en for  young  girls — a  sentiment — very  strong  and  yet 
very  delicate,  which  resembles,  in  its  tenderness,  the 
devotion  of  an  elder  sister  for  a  younger.  There  is 
in  it  a  little  naive  protection  and  also  a  little  romantic 
and  gracious  melancholy.  The  elder  friend  is  severe 
and  critical.  She  tries  to  assuage,  while  envying  them, 
the  excessive  enthusiasms  of  the  younger.  She  re- 
ceives, she  provokes  her  confidence  with  the  touching 
gravity  of  a  counsellor.  The  younger  friend  is  curious 
and  admiring.  She  shows  herself  in  all  the  truth  of 
that  graceful  awakening  of  thoughts  and  emotions 
which  precede  her  own  period  before  marriage.  And 
when  there  is,  as  was  the  case  with  Alba  Steno,  a 
certain  discord  of  soul  between  that  younger  friend 
and   her  mother,  the  affection  for  the  sister  chosen 

[308] 


COSMOPOLIS 

becomes  so  deep  that  it  can  not  be  broken  without 
wounds  on  both  sides.  It  was  for  that  reason  that, 
on  leaving  Rome,  faithful  and  noble  Maud  experienced 
at  once  a  sense  of  relief  and  of  pain — of  relief,  because 
she  was  no  longer  exposed  to  the  danger  of  an  ex- 
planation with  Alba;  of  pain,  because  it  was  so  bitter 
a  thought  for  her  that  she  could  never  justify  her 
heart  to  her  friend,  could  never  aid  her  in  emerging 
from  the  difficulties  of  her  life,  could,  finally,  never 
love  her  openly  as  she  had  loved  her  secretly.  She 
said  to  herself  as  she  saw  the  city  disappear  in  the 
night  with  its  curves  and  its  lights: 

"If  she  thinks  badly  of  me,  may  she  divine  nothing! 
Who  will  now  prevent  her  from  yielding  herself  up  to 
her  sentiment  for  that  dangerous  and  perfidious  Dor- 
senne  ?  Who  will  console  her  when  she  is  sad  ?  Who 
will  defend  her  against  her  mother?  I  was  perhaps 
wrong  in  writing  to  the  woman,  as  I  did,  the  letter, 
which  might  have  been  delivered  to  her  in  her  daugh- 
ter's presence.  .  .  .  Ah,  poor  little  soul!  .  .  .  May 
God  watch  over  her!" 

She  turned,  then,  toward  her  son,  whose  hair  she 
stroked,  as  if  to  exorcise,  by  the  evidence  of  present 
duty,  the  nostalgia  which  possessed  her  at  the  thought 
of  an  affection  sacrificed  forever.  Hers  was  a  nature 
too  active,  too  habituated  to  the  British  virtue  of  self- 
control  to  submit  to  the  languor  of  vain  emotions. 

The  two  persons  of  whom  her  friendship,  now  im- 
potent, had  thought,  were,  for  various  reasons,  the 
two  fatal  instruments  of  the  fate  of  the  "poor  little 
soul,"   and  the  vague  remorse  which  Maud   herself 

[309] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

felt  with  regard  to  the  terrible  note  sent  to  Madame 
Steno  in  the  presence  of  the  young  girl,  was  only  too 
true.  When  the  servant  had  given  that  letter  to  the 
Countess,  saying  that  INIadame  Gorka  excused  herself 
on  account  of  indisposition.  Alba  Steno's  first  impulse 
had  been  to  enter  her  friend's  room. 

"I  will  go  to  embrace  her  and  to  see  if  she  has  need 
of  anything,"  she  said. 

"Madame  has  forbidden  any  one  to  enter  her  room," 
replied  the  footman,  with  embarrassment,  and,  at  the 
same  moment,  Madame  Steno,  who  had  just  opened 
the  note,  said,  in  a  voice  which  struck  the  young  girl 
by  its  change : 

"Let  us  go;   I  do  not  feel  well,  either." 

The  woman,  so  haughty,  so  accustomed  to  bend  all 
to  her  will,  was  indeed  trembling  in  a  very  pitiful  man- 
ner beneath  the  insult  of  those  phrases  which  drove 
her,  Caterina  Steno,  away  with  such  ignominy.  She 
paled  to  the  roots  of  her  fair  hair,  her  face  was  dis- 
torted, and  for  the  first  and  last  time  Alba  saw  her 
form  tremble.  It  was  only  for  a  few  moments.  At 
the  foot  of  the  staircase  energy  gained  the  mastery  in 
that  courageous  character,  created  for  the  shock  of 
strong  emotions  and  for  instantaneous  action.  But 
rapid  as  had  been  that  passage,  it  had  sufficed  to  dis- 
concert the  young  girl.  For  not  a  moment  did  she 
doubt  that  the  note  was  the  cause  of  that  extraordinary 
metamorphosis  in  the  Countess's  aspect  and  attitude. 
The  fact  that  Maud  would  not  receive  her,  her  friend, 
in  her  room  was  not  less  strange.  What  was  happen- 
ing?    What  did  the  letter  contain?     What  were  they 


COSMOPOT.IS 

hiding  from  her?  If  she  had,  the  day  before,  felt  the 
''needle  in  the  heart"  only  on  divining  a  scene  of  vio- 
lent explanation  between  her  mother  and  Boleslas 
Gorka,  how  would  she  have  been  agonized  to  ascertain 
the  state  into  which  the  few  lines  of  Boleslas's  wife 
had  cast  that  mother!  The  anonymous  denunciation 
recurred  to  her,  and  with  it  all  the  suspicion  she  had 
in  vain  rejected.  The  mother  was  unaware  that  for 
months  there  was  taking  place  in  her  daughter  a  moral 
drama  of  which  that  scene  formed  a  decisive  episode, 
she  was  too  shrewd  not  to  understand  that  her  emotion 
had  been  very  imprudent,  and  that  she  must  explain 
it.  Moreover,  the  rupture  with  Maud  was  irrepar- 
able, and  it  was  necessary  that  Alba  should  be  in- 
cluded in  it. 

The  mother,  at  once  so  guilty  and  so  loving,  so 
blind  and  so  considerate,  had  no  sooner  foreseen  the 
necessity  than  her  decision  was  made,  and  a  false  ex- 
planation invented: 

"Guess  what  Maud  has  just  written  me?"  said 
she,  brusquely,  to  her  daughter,  when  they  were 
seated  side  by  side  in  their  carriage.  God,  what  balm 
the  simple  phrase  introduced  into  Alba's  heart!  Her 
mother  was  about  to  show  her  the  note !  Her  joy  was 
short-lived!  The  note  remained  where  the  Countess 
had  slipped  it,  after  having  nervously  folded  it,  in  the 
opening  in  her  glove.  And  she  continued:  "She 
accuses  me  of  being  the  cause  of  a  duel  between  her 
husband  and  Florent  Chapron,  and  she  quarrels  with 
me  by  letter,  without  seeing  mc,  without  speaking  to 
me!" 

[311] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"Boleslas  Gorka  has  fought  a  duel  with  Florent 
Chapron?"  repeated  the  young  girl. 

"Yes,"  replied  her  mother.  "I  knew  that  through 
Hafner.  I  did  not  speak  of  it  to  you  in  order  not  to 
worry  you  with  regard  to  IMaud,  and  I  have  only 
awaited  her  so  long  to  cheer  her  up  in  case  I  should 
have  found  her  uneasy,  and  this  is  how  she  rewards 
me  for  my  friendship!  It  seems  that  Gorka  took 
offence  at  some  remark  of  Chapron 's  about  Poles, 
one  of  those  innocent  remarks  made  daily  on  any 
nation — the  Italians,  the  French,  the  English,  the  Ger- 
mans, the  Jews — and  which  mean  nothing.  ...  I  re- 
peated the  remark  in  jest  to  Gorka!  ...  I  leave  you 
to  judge.  ...  Is  it  my  fault  if,  instead  of  laughing  at 
it,  he  insulted  poor  Florent,  and  if  the  absurd  en- 
counter resulted  from  it?  And  Maud,  who  writes 
me  that  she  will  never  pardon  me,  that  I  am  a  false 
friend,  that  I  did  it  expressly  to  exasperate  her  hus- 
band. .  .  .  Ah,  let  her  watch  her  husband,  let  her 
lock  him  up,  if  lie  is  mad!  And  I,  who  have  received 
them  as  I  have,  I,  who  have  made  their  position  for 
them  in  Rome,  I,  who  had  no  other  thought  than  for 
her  just  now!  .  .  .  You  hear,"  she  added,  pressing 
her  daughter's  hand  with  a  fervor  which  was  at  least 
sincere,  if  her  words  were  untruthful,  "I  forbid  you 
seeing  her  again  or  writing  to  her.  If  she  does  not 
offer  me  an  apology  for  her  insulting  note,  I  no  longer 
wish  to  know  her.     One  is  foolish  to  be  so  kind!" 

For  the  first  time,  whik'  listening  to  that  speech, 
Alba  was  convinced  that  her  mother  was  deceiving 
her.     Since  .suspicion  had  entered  her  heart  with  re- 

L312J 


COSMOPOLIS 

gard  to  her  mother,  the  object  until  then  of  such 
admiration  and  affection,  she  had  passed  through 
many  stages  of  mistrust.  To  talk  with  the  Countess 
was  always  to  dissipate  them.  That  was  because 
Madame  Steno,  apart  from  her  amorous  immorality, 
was  of  a  frank  and  truthful  nature. 

It  was  indeed  a  customary  and  known  weakness  of 
Florent's  to  repeat  those  witticisms  which  abound  in 
national  epigrams,  as  mediocre  as  they  are  iniquit- 
ous. Alba  could  recall  at  least  twenty  circumstances 
when  the  excellent  man  had  uttered  such  jests  at 
which  a  sensitive  person  might  take  offence.  She 
would  not  have  thought  it  utterly  impossible  that  a 
duel  between  Gorka  and  Chapron  might  have  been 
provoked  by  an  incident  of  that  order.  But  Chapron 
was  the  brother-in-law  of  Maitland,  of  the  new  friend 
with  whom  Madame  Steno  had  become  infatuated 
during  the  absence  of  the  Polish  Count,  and  what  a 
brother-in-law!  He  of  whom  Dorsenne  said:  "He 
would  set  Rome  on  fire  to  cook  an  egg  for  his  sister's 
husband."  When  Madame  Steno  announced  that 
duel  to  her  daughter,  an  invincible  and  immediate 
deduction  possessed  the  poor  child — Florent  was  fight- 
ing for  his  brother-in-law.  And  on  account  of  whom, 
if  not  of  Madame  Steno?  The  thought  would  not, 
however,  have  possessed  her  a  second  in  the  face  of 
the  very  plausible  explanation  made  by  the  Countess, 
if  Alba  had  not  had  in  her  heart  a  certain  proof  that 
her  mother  was  not  telling  the  truth.  The  young  girl 
loved  Maud  as  much  as  she  was  loved  by  her.  She 
knew  the  sensibility  of  her  faithful  and  delicate  friend, 

[3^3] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

as  that  friend  knew  hers.  For  Maud  to  write  her 
mother  a  letter  which  produced  an  immediate  rup- 
ture, there  must  have  been  some  grave  reason. 

Another  material  proof  was  soon  joined  to  that 
moral  proof.  Granted  the  character  and  the  habits 
of  the  Countess,  since  she  had  not  shown  Maud's  letter 
to  her  daughter  there  and  then,  it  was  because  the 
letter  was  not  fit  to  be  shown.  But  she  heard  on  the 
following  day  only  the  description  of  the  duel,  related 
by  Maitland  to  Madame  Steno,  the  savage  aggression 
of  Gorka  against  Dorsenne,  the  composure  of  the  latter 
and  the  issue,  relatively  harmless,  of  the  two  duels. 

"You  see,"  said  her  mother  to  her,  "I  was  right  in 
saying  that  Gorka  is  mad!  ...  It  seems  he  has  had 
a  fit  of  insanity  since  the  duel,  and  that  they  prevent 
him  from  seeing  any  one.  .  .  .  Can  you  now  com- 
prehend how  IMaud  could  blame  me  for  what  is  hered- 
itary in  the  Gorka  family?" 

Such  was  indeed  the  story  which  the  Venetian  and 
her  friends,  Hafner,  Ardea,  and  others,  circulated 
throughout  Rome  in  order  to  diminish  the  scandal. 
The  accusation  of  madness  is  very  common  to  women 
who  have  goaded  to  excess  man's  passion,  and  who 
then  wish  to  avoid  all  blame  for  the  deeds  or  words  of 
that  man.  In  this  case,  Boleslas's  fury  and  his  two 
incomprehensible  duels,  fifteen  minutes  apart,  justified 
the  .story.  When  it  became  known  in  the  city  that  the 
Palazzetto  Doria  was  strictly  closed,  that  Maud  Gorka 
received  no  one,  and  finally  that  she  was  taking  away 
her  husband  in  the  manner  which  resembled  a  flight, 
no  doubt  remained  of  the  young  man's  wreckcnJ  reason. 

[3'4] 


COSMOPOLIS 

Two  persons  profited  very  handsomely  by  the  gos- 
siping, the  origin  of  which  was  a  mystery.  One  was 
the  innkeeper  of  the  Tempo  Perso,  whose  simple  hettola 
became,  during  those  few  days,  a  veritable  place  of 
pilgrimage,  and  who  sold  a  quantity  of  wine  and  num- 
bers of  fresh  eggs.  The  other  was  Dorsenne's  pub- 
lisher, of  whom  the  Roman  booksellers  ordered  sev- 
eral hundred  volumes. 

"If  I  had  had  that  duel  in  Paris,"  said  the  novelist 
to  IMademoiselle  Steno,  relating  to  her  the  unforeseen 
result,  "I  should  perhaps  have  at  length  known  the 
intoxication  of  the  thirtieth  edition." 

It  was  a  few  days  after  the  departure  of  the  Gorkas 
that  he  jested  thus,  at  a  large  dinner  of  twenty-four 
covers,  given  at  Villa  Steno  in  honor  of  Peppino  Ardea 
and  Fanny  Hafner.  Reestablished  in  the  Countess's 
favor  since  his  duel,  he  had  again  become  a  frequenter 
of  her  house,  so  much  the  more  assiduous  as  the  in- 
creasing melancholy  of  Alba  interested  him  greatly. 
The  enigma  of  the  young  girl's  character  redoubled 
that  interest  at  each  visit  in  such  a  degree  that,  not- 
withstanding the  heat,  already  beginning,  of  the  dan- 
gerous Roman  summer,  he  constantly  deferred  his 
return  to  Paris  until  the  morrow.  What  had  she 
guessed  in  consequence  of  the  encounter,  the  details 
of  which  she  had  asked  of  him  with  an  emotion  scarcely 
hidden  in  her  eyes  of  a  blue  as  clear,  as  transparent, 
as  impenetrable  at  the  same  time,  as  the  water  of  cer- 
tain Alpine  lakes  at  the  foot  of  the  glaciers.  He 
thought  he  was  doing  right  in  corroborating  the  story 
of  Boleslas  Gorka's  madness,  which  he  knew  better 

[315] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

than  any  one  else  to  be  false.  But  was  it  not  the 
surest  means  of  exempting  Madame  Steno  from  con- 
nection with  the  affair?  Why  had  he  seen  Alba's 
beautiful  eyes  veiled  with  a  sadness  inexplicable,  as 
if  he  had  just  given  her  another  blow?  He  did  not 
know  that  since  the  day  on  which  the  word  insanity 
had  been  uttered  before  her  relative  to  Maud's  husband, 
the  Contessina  was  the  victim  of  a  reasoning  as  simple 
as  irrefutable. 

"If  Boleslas  be  mad,  as  they  say,"  said  Alba,  "why 
does  Maud,  whom  I  know  to  be  so  just  and  who  loves 
me  so  dearly,  attribute  to  my  mother  the  responsi- 
bility of  this  duel,  to  the  point  of  breaking  with  me 
thus,  and  of  leaving  without  a  line  of  explanation? 
.  .  .  No.  .  .  .  There  is  something  else."  .  .  .  The  na- 
ture of  the  "something  else"  the  young  girl  compre- 
hended, on  recalling  her  mother's  face  during  the 
perusal  of  Maud's  letter.  During  the  ten  days  follow- 
ing that  scene,  she  saw  constantly  before  her  that  face, 
and  the  fear  imprinted  upon  those  features  ordinarily 
so  calm,  so  haughty!  Ah,  poor  little  soul,  indeed, 
who  could  not  succeed  in  banishing  this  fixed  idea: 
"My  mother  is  not  a  good  woman." 

Idea!  So  much  the  more  terrible,  as  Alba  had  no 
longer  the  ignorance  of  a  young  girl,  if  she  had  the  in- 
nocence. Accustomed  to  the  conversations,  at  times 
very  bold,  of  the  Countess's  salon,  enlightened  by  the 
reading  of  novels  chanced  upon,  the  words  lover  and 
mistress  had  for  her  a  signification  of  })liysical  intimacy 
such  that  it  was  an  almost  intolerable  torture  for  her 
to  associate  them   with  the  relations  of  her  mother, 

[316] 


COSMOPOLIS 

first  toward  Gorka,  then  toward  Maitland.  That  tor- 
ture she  had  undergone  during  the  entire  dinner,  at 
the  conclusion  of  which  Dorsennc  essayed  to  chat 
gayly  with  her.  She  sat  beside  the  painter,  and  the 
man's  very  breath,  his  gestures,  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  his  manner  of  eating  and  of  drinking,  the  knowl- 
edge of  his  very  proximity,  had  caused  her  such  keen 
suffering  that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  take  anything 
but  large  glasses  of  iced  water.  Several  times  during 
that  dinner,  prolonged  amid  the  sparkle  of  magnificent 
silver  and  Venetian  crystal,  amid  the  perfume  of 
flowers  and  the  gleam  of  jewels,  she  had  seen  Mait- 
land's  eyes  fixed  upon  the  Countess  with  an  expres- 
sion which  almost  caused  her  to  cry  out,  so  clearly 
did  her  instinct  divine  its  impassioned  sensuality, 
and  once  she  thought  she  saw  her  mother  respond 
to  it. 

She  felt  with  appalling  clearness  that  which  be- 
fore she  had  uncertainly  experienced,  the  immodest 
character  of  that  mother's  beauty.  With  the  pearls 
in  her  fair  hair,  with  neck  and  arms  bare  in  a  corsage 
the  delicate  green  tint  of  which  showed  to  advantage 
the  incomparable  splendor  of  her  skin,  with  her  dewy 
lips,  with  her  voluptuous  eyes  shaded  by  their  long 
lashes,  the  dogaresse  looked  in  the  centre  of  that  table 
like  an  empress  and  like  a  courtesan.  She  resembled 
the  Caterina  Cornaro,  the  gallant  queen  of  the  island 
of  Cypress,  painted  by  Titian,  and  whose  name  she 
worthily  bore.  For  years  Alba  had  been  so  proud  of 
the  ray  of  seduction  cast  forth  by  the  Countess,  so 
proud  of  those  statuesque  arms,  of  the  superb  carriage, 

[317] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

of  the  face  which  defied  the  passage  of  time,  of  the 
bloom  of  opulent  life  the  glorious  creature  displayed. 
Durinsr  that  dinner  she  was  almost  ashamed  of  it. 

She  had  been  pained  to  see  Madame  Maitland 
seated  a  few  paces  farther  on,  with  brow  and  lips 
contracted  as  if  by  thoughts  of  bitterness.  She  won- 
dered: Does  Lydia  suspect  them,  too?  But  was  it 
possible  that  her  mother,  whom  she  knew  to  be  so 
generous,  so  magnanimous,  so  kind,  could  have  that 
smile  of  sovereign  tranquillity  with  such  secrets  in  her 
heart?  Was  it  possible  that  she  could  have  betrayed 
Maud  for  months  and  months  with  the  same  light  of 
joy  in  her  eyes? 

"Come,"  said  Julien,  stopping  himself  suddenly  in 
the  midst  of  a  speech,  in  which  he  had  related  two  or 
three  hterary  anecdotes.  "Instead  of  listening  to  your 
friend  Dorsenne,  little  Countess,  you  arc  following 
several  blue  devils  flying  through  the  room." 

"They  would  fly,  in  any  case,"  replied  Alba,  who, 
pointing  to  Fanny  Hafner  and  Prince  d'Ardea  seated  on 
a  couch,  continued :  "  Has  what  I  told  you  a  few  weeks 
since  been  realized?  You  do  not  know  all  the  irony 
of  it.  You  have  not  assisted,  as  I  did  the  day  before 
yesterday,  at  the  ])oor  girl's  baptism." 

"It  is  true,"  replied  Julien,  "you  were  godmother. 
I  dreamed  of  Leo  Thirteentli  as  godfather,  with  a 
princess  of  the  house  of  Bourbon  as  godmother.  Haf- 
ner's  triumph  would  have  been  complete!" 

"He  had  to  content  himself  with  his  ambassador 
and  your  servant,"  replied  Al])a  with  a  faint  smile, 
which  was  speedily  converted  into  an  expression  of 

l3i8] 


COSMOPOLIS 

bitterness.  "Are  you  satisfied  with  your  pupil?"  she 
added.  "I  anq  progressing.  ...  I  laugh  when  I  wish 
to  weep.  .  .  .  But  you  yourself  would  not  have  laughed 
had  you  seen  the  fervor  of  charming  Fanny.  She  was 
the  picture  of  blissful  faith.     Do  not  scoff  at  her. " 

"And  where  did  the  ceremony  take  place?"  asked 
Dorsennc,  obeying  the  almost  suppliant  injunction. 
"In  the  chapel  of  the  Dames  du  Cenacle.'" 
"I  know  the  place,"  replied  the  novehst,  "one  of 
the  most  beautiful  corners  of  Rome!  It  is  in  the  old 
Palais  Piancini,  a  large  mansion  almost  opposite  the 
Calcographie  Royale,  where  they  sell  those  fantastic 
etchings  of  the  great  Piranese,  those  dungeons  and 
those  ruins  of  so  intense  a  poesy!  It  is  the  Gaya 
of  stone.  There  is  a  garden  on  the  terrace.  And 
to  ascend  to  the  chapel  one  follows  a  winding  stair- 
case, an  incline  without  steps,  and  one  meets  nuns 
in  violet  gowns,  with  faces  so  delicate  in  the  white 
framework  of  their  bonnets.  In  short,  an  ideal  re- 
treat for  one  of  my  heroines.  My  old  friend  Mont- 
fanon  took  me  there.  As  we  ascended  to  that  tower, 
six  weeks  ago,  we  heard  the  shrill  voices  of  ten  little 
girls,  singing:  Questo  cuor  tn  lavedrai*  ...  It  was  a 
procession  of  catechists,  going  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion, with  ta>pers  which  flickered  dimly  in  the  remnant 
of  daylight.  ...  It  was  exquisite.  .  .  .  But,  now  per- 
mit me  to  laugh  at  the  thought  of  Montfanon's  choler 
when  I  relate  to  him  this  baptism.  If  I  knew  where 
to  find  the  old  leaguer!  But  he  has  been  hiding  since 
our  duel.     He  is  in  some  retreat  doing  penance.     As 

*That  heart  of  Jesus,  thou  shalt  see  it. 
[319] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

I  have  already  told  you,  the  world  for  him  has  not 
stirred  since  Francois  de  Guise.  He  only  admits  the 
aims  of  the  Protestants  and  the  Jews.  When  Mon- 
seigneur  Guerillot  tells  him  of  Fanny's  religious  aspira- 
tions, he  raves  immoderately.  Were  she  to  cast  her- 
self to  the  lions,  like  Saint  Blandine,  he  would  still  cry 
out  'sacrilege.' " 

''He  did  not  see  her  the  day  before  yesterday,"  said 
Alba,  "nor  the  expression  upon  her  face  when  she 
recited  the  Credo.  I  do  not  believe  in  mysticism,  you 
know,  and  I  have  moments  of  doubt.  There  are 
times  when  I  can  no  longer  believe  in  anything,  life 
seems  to  me  so  wretched  and  sad.  ...  But  I  shall 
never  forget  that  expression.  She  saw  God!  .  .  . 
Several  women  were  present  with  very  touching  faces, 
and  there  were  many  devotees.  .  .  .  The  Cardinal  is 
very  venerable.  .  .  .  All  were  by  Fanny's  side,  like 
saints  around  the  Madonna  in  the  early  paintings 
which  you  have  taught  me  to  like,  and  when  the  bap- 
tism had  been  gone  through,  guess  what  she  said  to 
me:  'Come,  let  us  pray  for  my  dear  father,  and  for 
his  conversion.'     Is  not  such  blindness  melancholy." 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Dorsenne  again,  jocosely,  "that 
in  the  father's  dictionary  the  word  has  another  mean- 
ing: Conversion,  feminine  substantive,  means  to  him 
income.  .  .  .  But  let  us  reason  a  little.  Countess. 
Why  do  you  think  it  sad  that  the  daughter  should  see 
her  father's  character  in  her  owti  light?  .  .  .  You 
should,  on  the  contrary,  rejoice  at  it.  .  .  .  And  why 
do  you  find  it  melancholy  that  this  adorable  saint 
should  be  the  daughter  of  a  thief?  .  .  .  How  I  wish 

[320] 


COSMOPOLIS 

that  you  were  really  my  pupil,  and  that  it  would  not 
be  too  absurd  to  give  you  here,  in  this  corner  of  the 
hall,  a  lesson  in  intellectuality!  ...  I  would  say  to 
you,  when  you  see  one  of  those  anomalies  which  ren- 
ders you  indignant,  think  of  the  causes.  It  is  so  easy. 
"Although  Protestant,  Fanny  is  of  Jewish  origin — that 
is  to  say,  the  descendant  of  a  persecuted  race — which 
in  consequence  has  developed  by  the  side  of  the  in- 
herent defects  of  a  proscribed  people  the  corresponding 
virtues,  the  devotion,  the  abnegation  of  the  woman 
who  feels  that  she  is  the  grace  of  a  threatened  hearth, 
the  sweet  flower  which  perfumes  the  sombre  prison." 

''It  is  all  beautiful  and  true,"  replied  Alba,  very 
seriously.  She  had  hung  upon  Dorsenne's  lips  while 
he  spoke,  with  the  instinctive  taste  for  ideas  of  that 
order  which  proved  her  veritable  origin.  ''But  you 
do  not  mention  the  sorrow.  This  is  what  one  can 
not  do — look  upon  as  a  tapestry,  as  a  picture,  as  an  ob- 
ject; the  creature  who  has  not  asked  to  live  and  who 
suffers.  You,  who  have  feeling,  what  is  your  theory 
when  you  weep? 

"I  can  very  clearly  foresee  the  day  on  which  Fanny 
will  feel  her  misfortune, "  continued  the  young  girl.  "I 
do  not  know  when  she  will  begin  to  judge  her  father, 
but  that  she  already  begins  to  judge  Ardea,  alas,  I  am 
only  too  sure-  .  .  .  Watch  her  at  this  moment,  I  pray 
you." 

Dorsenne  indeed  looked  at  the  couple.  Fanny  was 
listening  to  the  Prince,  but  with  a  trace  of  sufi'ering 
upon  her  beautiful  face,  so  pure  in  outline  that  the 
nobleness  in  it  was  ideal. 

21  [321] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

He  was  laughing  at  some  anecdote  which  he  thought 
excellent,  and  which  clashed  with  the  sense  of  delicacy 
of  the  person  to  whom  he  was  addressing  himself. 
They  were  no  longer  the  couple  who,  in  the  early 
days  of  their  betrothal,  had  given  to  Julien  the  senti- 
ment of  a  complete  illusion  on  the  part  of  the  young 
girl  for  her  future  husband. 

"You  are  right,  Contessina,"  said  he,  "the  decrys- 
tallization  has  commenced.     It  is  a  little  too  soon." 

"Yes,  it  is  too  soon,"  replied  Alba.  "And  yet  it  is 
too  late.  Would  you  believe  that  there  are  times  when 
I  ask  myself  if  it  would  not  be  my  duty  to  tell  her  the 
truth  about  her  marriage,  such  as  I  know  it,  with  the 
story  of  the  weak  man,  the  forced  sale,  and  of  the  bar- 
gaining of  Ardea?" 

"You  will  not  do  it,"  said  Dorsenne.  "Moreover, 
why?  This  one  or  another,  the  man  who  marries 
her  will  only  want  her  money,  rest  assured.  It  is 
necessary  that  the  millions  be  paid  for  here  below,  it 
is  one  of  their  ransoms.  .  .  .  But  I  shall  cause  you 
to  be  scolded  by  your  mother,  for  I  am  monopolizing 
you,  and  I  have  still  two  calls  to  pay  this  evening." 

"Well,  postpone  them,"  said  Alba.  "I  beseech 
you,  do  not  go." 

"I  must,"  replied  Julien.  "It  is  the  last  Wednes- 
day of  old  Duchess  Pictrapertosa,  and  after  her  grand- 
son's recent  kindness " 

"She  is  so  ugly,"  said  Alba,  "will  you  sacrifice  me 
to  her?" 

"Then  there  is  my  compatriot,  who  goes  away  to- 
morrow and  of  wlioni  T  nnist  take  leave  this  evening, 

[322] 


COSMOPOLIS 

Madame  de  Sauve,  with  whom  you  met  me  at  the 
museum.  .  .  .  You  will  not  say  she  is  ugly,  will  you?" 

''No,"  responded  Alba,  dreamily,  "she  is  very 
pretty."  .  .  .  She  had  another  prayer  upon  her  lips, 
which  she  did  not  formulate.  Then,  with  a  beseech- 
ing glance:  "Return,  at  least.  Promise  me  that  you 
will  return  after  your  two  visits.  They  will  be  over 
in  an  hour  and  a  half.  It  will  not  be  midnight.  You 
know  some  do  not  ever  come  before  one  and  some- 
times two  o'clock.     You  will  return?" 

"If  possible,  yes.  But  at  any  rate,  we  shall  meet 
to-morrow,  at  the  studio,  to  see  the  portrait." 

"Then,  adieu,"  said  the  young  girl,  in  a  low  voice. 


[323] 


CHAPTER  X 

COMMON  MISERY 

JHE  Contessina's  disposition  was  too 
different  from  her  mother's  for  the 
mother  to  comprehend  that  heart,  the 
more  contracted  in  proportion  as  it 
was  touched,  while  emotion  was  syno- 
nymous with  expansion  in  the  opulent 
and  impulsive  Venetian.  That  even- 
ing she  had  not  even  observed  Alba's 
dreaminess,  Dorsenne  once  gone,  and  it  required  that 
Hafner  should  call  her  attention  to  it.  To  the  schem- 
ing Baron,  if  the  novelist  was  attentive  to  the  young 
girl  it  was  certainly  with  the  object  of  capturing  a 
considerable  dowry.  Julien's  income  of  twenty-five 
thousand  francs  meant  independence.  The  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  francs  which  Alba  would  have 
at  her  mother's  death  was  a  very  large  fortune.  So 
Hafner  thought  he  would  deserve  the  name  of  "old 
friend,"  by  taking  Madame  Stcno  aside  and  saying 
to  her: 

"Do  you  not  think  Alba  has  been  a  little  strange 
for  several  days!" 

"She  has  always  been  so,"  replied  the  Countess. 
"Young  people  are  like  that  nowadays;  there  is  no 
more  youth." 

[324] 


COSMOPOLIS 

"Do  you  not  think,"  continued  the  Baron,  "that 
perhaps  there  is  another  cause  for  that  sadness — 
some  interest  in  some  one,  for  example?" 

"Alba?"  exclaimed  the  mother.     "For  whom?" 

"For  Dorsenne, "  returned  Hafner,  lowering  his 
voice;  "he  just  left  five  minutes  ago,  and  you  see  she 
is  no  longer  interested  in  anything  nor  in  any  one." 

"Ah,  I  should  be  very  much  pleased,"  said  Madame 
Steno,  laughing.  "He  is  a  handsome  fellow;  he  has 
talent,  fortune.  He  is  the  grand-nephew  of  a  hero, 
which  is  equivalent  to  nobility,  in  my  opinion.  But 
Alba  has  no  thought  of  it,  I  assure  you.  She  would 
have  told  me;  she  tells  me  everything.  We  are  two 
friends,  almost  two  comrades,  and  she  knows  I  shall 
leave  her  perfectly  free  to  choose.  .  .  .  No,  my  old 
friend,  I  understand  my  daughter.  Neither  Dorsenne 
nor  any  one  else  interests  her,  unfortunately.  I  some- 
times fear  she  will  go  into  a  decline,  like  her  cousin 
Andryana  Navagero,  whom  she  resembles.  .  .  .  But 
I  must  cheer  her  up.     It  will  not  take  long." 

"A  Dorsenne  for  a  son-in-law!"  said  Hafner  to  him- 
self, as  he  watched  the  Countess  walk  toward  Alba 
through  the  scattered  groups  of  her  guests,  and  he 
shook  his  head,  turning  his  eyes  with  satisfaction  upon 
his  future  son-in-law.  "That  is  what  comes  of  not 
watching  one's  children  closely.  One  fancies  one 
understands  them  until  some  folly  opens  one's  eyes! 
.  .  .  And,  it  is  too  late!  .  .  .  Well,  I  have  warned 
her,  and  it  is  no  affair  of  mine!" 

In  spite  of  Fanny's  observed  and  increasing  vexation 
Ardea  amused  himself  by  relating  to  her  anecdotes, 

[325] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

more  or  less  true,  of  the  goings-on  in  the  Vatican. 
He  thus  attempted  to  abate  a  CathoHc  enthusiasm  at 
which  he  was  already  offended.  His  sense  of  the 
ridiculous  and  that  of  his  social  interest  made  him  per- 
ceive how  absurd  it  would  be  to  go  into  clerical  society 
after  having  taken  for  a  wife  a  millionaire  converted 
the  day  before.  To  be  just,  it  must  be  added  that  the 
Countess's  dry  champagne  was  not  altogether  irre- 
sponsible for  the  persistency  with  which  he  teased  his 
betrothed.  It  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  indulged 
in  the  semi-intoxication  which  had  been  one  of  the 
sins  of  his  youth,  a  sin  less  rare  in  the  southern  cli- 
mates than  the  modesty  of  the  North  imagines. 

"You  come  opportunely,  Contessina, "  said  he, 
when  Mademoiselle  Steno  had  seated  herself  upon  the 
couch  beside  them.  "Your  friend  is  scandalized  by 
a  little  story  I  have  just  told  her.  .  .  .  The  one  of  the 
noble  guard  who  used  the  telephone  of  the  Vatican  this 
winter  to  appoint  rendezvous  with  Guilia  Rezzonico 
without  awakening  the  jealousy  of  Ugolino.  .  .  .  But 
it  is  nothing.  I  have  almost  quarrelled  with  Fanny 
for  having  revealed  to  her  that  the  Holy  Father  re- 
peated his  benediction  in  Chapel  Sixtine,  with  a  sing- 
ing master,  like  a  prima  donna." 

"I  have  already  told  you  that  I  do  not  like  those 
jests,"  said  Fanny,  with  visible  irritation,  which  her 
patience,  however,  governed.  "If  you  desire  to  con- 
tinue them,  I  will  leave  you  to  converse  with  Alba." 

"Since  you  see  that  you  annoy  her,"  said  the  latter 
to  the  Prince,  "change  the  subject." 

"Ah,  Contessina,"  rcpHcd  Peppino,  shaking  his 
[326] 


COSMOPOLIS 

head,  ''5^00  support  her  already.  What  will  it  be 
later?  Well,  I  apologize  for  my  innocent  epigrams 
on  His  Holiness  in  his  dressing-gown.  And,"  he  con- 
tinued, laughing,  "it  is  a  pity,  for  I  have  still  tw^o  or 
three  entertaining  stories,  notably  one  about  a  coffer 
filled  with  gold  pieces,  which  a  faithful  bequeathed 
to  the  Pope.  And  that  poor,  dear  man  was  about  to 
count  them  when  the  coffer  slipped  from  his  hand, 
and  there  was  the  entire  treasure  on  the  floor,  and  the 
Pope  and  a  cardinal  on  all  fours  were  scrambling  for 
the  napoleons,  when  a  servant  entered.  .  .  .  Tableau! 
...  I  assure  you  that  good  Pius  IX  would  be  the 
first  to  laugh  with  us  at  all  the  Vatican  jokes.  He  is 
not  so  much  alia  mano.  But  he  is  a  holy  man  just 
the  same.  Do  not  think  I  do  not  render  him  justice. 
Only,  the  holy  man  is  a  man,  and  a  good  old  man. 
That  is  what  you  do  not  wish  to  see." 

''Where  are  you  going?"  said  Alba  to  Fanny,  who 
had  risen  as  she  had  threatened  to  do. 

"To  talk  with  my  father,  to  whom  I  have  several 
words  to  say." 

"I  warned  you  to  change  the  subject,"  said  Alba, 
when  she  and  the  Prince  were  alone.  Ardea,  some- 
what abashed,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed: 

*' You  will  confess  that  the  situation  is  quite  piquant, 
little  Countess.  .  .  .  You  will  see  she  will  forbid  me 
to  go  to  the  Quirinal.  .  .  .  Only  one  thing  will  be 
lacking,  and  it  is  that  Papa  Hafner  should  discover 
religious  scruples  which  would  prevent  him  from  greet- 
ing the  King.  .  .  .  But  Fanny  must  be  appeased!" 

"My  God!"  said  Alba  to  herself,  seeing  the  young 
[327] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

man  rise  in  his  turn.  "I  believe  he  is  intoxicated. 
What  a  pity!" 

As  have  almost  all  revolutions  of  that  order,  the  work 
of  Christianity,  accomplished  for  years,  in  Fanny  had 
for  its  principle  an  example. 

The  death  of  a  friend,  the  sublime  death  of  a  true 
believer,  ended  by  determining  her  faith.  She  saw 
the  dying  woman  receive  the  sacrament,  and  the  in- 
effable joy  of  the  benediction  upon  the  face  of  the 
sufferer  of  twenty  lighted  up  by  ecstasy.  She  heard 
her  say,  with  a  smile  of  conviction : 

*'I  go  to  ask  you  of  Our  Lord,  Jesus  Christ." 

How  could  she  have  resisted  such  a  cry  and  such  a 
sight  ? 

The  very  day  after  that  death  she  asked  of  her  father 
permission  to  be  baptized,  which  request  drew  from 
the  Baron  a  reply  too  significant  not  to  be  repeated 
here: 

"Undoubtedly,"  had  replied  the  surprising  man, 
who  instead  of  a  heart,  had  a  Bourse  list  on  which  all 
was  tariffed,  even  God,  "undoubtedly  I  am  touched, 
very  deeply  touched,  and  very  happy  to  see  that  re- 
ligious matters  preoccupy  you  to  such  a  degree.  To 
the  people  it  is  a  necessary  curb,  and  to  us  it  accords 
with  a  certain  rank,  a  certain  society,  a  certain  deport- 
ment. I  think  that  a  person  called  like  you  to  live  in 
Austria  and  in  Italy  should  be  a  Catholic.  However, 
it  is  necessary  to  remember  that  you  might  marry 
some  one  of  another  faith.  Do  not  object.  I  am  your 
father.  I  can  foresee  all.  I  know  you  will  marry 
only  according  to  the  dictates  of  your  heart.     Wait 

[328] 


COSMOPOLIS 

then  until  it  has  spoken,  to  settle  the  question.  ...  If 
you  love  a  Catholic,  you  will  then  have  occasion  to 
pay  a  compliment  to  your  betrothed  by  adopting  his 
faith,  of  which  he  will  be  very  sensible.  .  .  .  From 
now  until  then,  I  shall  not  prevent  you  from  following 
ceremonies  which  please  you.  Those  of  the  Roman 
liturgy  are,  assuredly,  among  the  best;  I  myself  at- 
tended Saint  Peter's  at  the  time  of  the  pontifical  gov- 
ernment. .  .  .  The  taste,  the  magnificence,  the  music, 
all  moved  me.  .  .  .  But  to  take  a  definite,  irreparable 
step,  I  repeat,  you  must  wait.  Your  actual  condition 
of  a  Protestant  has  the  grand  sentiment  of  being  more 
neutral,  less  defined." 

What  words  to  Hsten  to  by  a  heart  already  touched 
by  the  attraction  of  grace  and  by  the  nostalgia  of  eter- 
nal life!  But  the  heart  was  that  of  a  young  girl  very 
pure  and  very  tender.  To  judge  her  father  was 
to  her  impossible,  and  the  Baron's  firmness  had 
convinced  her  that  she  must  obey  his  wishes  and 
pray  that  he  be  enlightened.  She  therefore  waited, 
hoping,  sustained  and  directed  meanwhile  by  Cardinal 
Guerillot,  who  later  on  was  to  baptize  her  and  to  ob- 
tain for  her  the  favor  of  approaching  the  holy  table 
for  the  first  time  at  the  Pope's  mass.  That  prelate, 
one  of  the  noblest  figures  of  which  the  French  bishopric 
has  had  cause  to  be  proud,  since  Monseigneur  Pie,  was 
one  of  those  grand  Christians  for  whom  the  hand  of 
God  is  as  visible  in  the  direction  of  human  beings  as 
it  is  invisible  to  doubtful  souls.  When  Fanny,  already 
devoted  to  her  charities,  confided  in  him  the  serious 
troubles  of  her  mind  and  the  discord  which  had  arisen 

[329] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

between  her  and  her  father  on  the  so  essential  point 
of  her  baptism,  the  Cardinal  replied: 

"Have  faith  in  God.  He  will  give  you  a  sign 
when  your  time  has  come."  And  he  uttered  those 
words  with  an  accent  whose  conviction  had  filled 
the  young  girl  with  a  certainty  which  had  never 
left  her. 

In  spite  of  his  seventy  years,  and  of  the  experiences 
of  the  confession,  in  spite  of  the  disenchanting  struggle 
with  the  freemasonry  of  his  French  diocese,  which 
had  caused  his  exile  to  Rome,  the  venerable  man 
looked  at  Fanny's  marriage  from  a  supernatural  stand- 
point. Many  priests  are  thus  capable  of  a  naivete 
which,  on  careful  analysis,  is  often  in  the  right.  But 
at  the  moment  the  antithesis  between  the  authentic 
reahty  and  that  which  they  beheve,  constitutes  an 
irony  almost  absurd.  When  he  had  baptized  Fanny, 
the  old  Bishop  of  Clermont  was  possessed  by  a  joy  so 
deep  that  he  said  to  her,  to  express  to  her  the  more 
delicately  the  tender  respect  of  his  friendship: 

"I  can  now  say  as  did  Saint  Monica  after  the  bap- 
tism of  Saint  Augustine:  Cur  hie  sim,  nescio ;  jam 
consumptd  spe  hujus  saeculi.  I  do  not  know  why  I 
remain  here  below.  All  my  hope  of  the  age  is  con- 
summated. And  like  her  I  can  add — the  only  thing 
which  made  me  desire  to  remain  awhile  was  to  see 
you  a  Catholic  before  dying.  The  traveller,  who  has 
tarried,  has  now  nothing  to  do  but  to  go.  He  has 
gathered  the  last  and  the  prettiest  flower."  .  .  . 

Noble  and  faithful  apostle,  who  was  indeed  to  go 
so  shortly  after,  meriting  what  they  said  of  him,  that 

[33°] 


COSMOPOLIS 

which  the  African  bishop  said  of  his  mother:  "That 
reHgious  soul  was  at  length  absolved  from  her  body." 
.  .  .  He  did  not  anticipate  that  he  would  pay  dearly 
for  that  realization  of  his  last  wish!  He  did  not  fore- 
see that  she  whom  he  ingenuously  termed  his  most 
beautiful  flower  was  to  become  to  him  the  principal 
cause  of  bitter  sorrow.  Poor,  grand  Cardinal!  It 
was  the  final  trial  of  his  life,  the  supremely  bitter  drop 
in  his  chalice,  to  assist  at  the  disenchantment  which 
followed  so  closely  upon  the  blissful  intoxication  of 
his  gentle  neophyte's  first  initiation.  To  whom,  if  not 
to  him,  should  she  have  gone  to  ask  counsel,  in  all  the 
tormenting  doubts  which  she  at  once  began  to  have  in 
her  feelings  with  regard  to  her  'fiance? 

It  was,  therefore,  that  on  the  day  following  the 
evening  on  which  imprudent  Ardea  had  jested  so  per- 
sistently upon  a  subject  sacred  to  her  that  she  rang  at 
the  door  of  the  apartment  which  Monseigneur  Guer- 
illot  occupied  in  the  large  mansion  on  Rue  des  Quatre- 
Fontaines.  There  was  no  question  of  incriminating 
the  spirit  of  those  pleasantries,  nor  of  relating  her 
humiliating  observations  on  the  Prince's  intoxication. 
No.  She  wished  to  ease  her  mind,  on  which  rested 
a  shade  of  sorrow.  At  the  time  of  her  betrothal,  she 
had  fancied  she  loved  Ardea,  for  the  emotion  of  her 
religious  life  at  length  freed  had  inspired  her  with 
gratitude  for  him  who  was,  however,  only  the  pretext 
of  that  exemption.  She  trembled  to-day,  not  only  at 
not  loving  him  any  more,  but  at  hating  him,  and  above 
all  she  felt  herself  a  prey  to  that  repugnance  for  the 
useless  cares  of  the  world,  to  that  lassitude  of  tran- 


PAUL  BOURGET 

sitory  hopes,  to  that  nostalgia  of  repose  in  God,  un- 
deniable signs  of  true  vocations. 

At  the  thought  that  she  might,  if  she  survived  her 
father  and  she  remained  free,  retire  to  the  Dames  du 
Cenacle,  she  felt  at  her  approaching  marriage  an  inward 
repugnance,  which  augmented  still  more  the  proof  of 
her  future  husband's  deplorable  character.  Had  she 
the  right  to  form  such  bonds  with  such  feelings? 
Would  it  be  honorable  to  break,  without  further  de- 
velopments, the  betrothal  which  had  been  between 
her  and  her  father  the  condition  of  her  baptism  ?  She 
was  already  there,  after  so  few  days!  And  her  wound 
was  deeper  after  the  night  on  which  the  Prince  had 
uttered  his  careless  jests. 

"It  is  permitted  you  to  withdraw,"  replied  Monsieur 
Guerillot,  ''but  you  arc  not  permitted  to  lack  charity 
in  your  judgment." 

There  was  within  Fanny  too  much  sincerity,  her 
faith  was  too  simple  and  too  deep  for  her  not  to  follow 
out  that  advice  to  the  letter,  and  she  conformed  to  it 
in  deeds  as  well  as  in  intentions.  For,  before  taking 
a  walk  in  the  afternoon  with  Alba,  she  took  the  great- 
est care  to  remove  all  traces  which  the  little  scene  of 
the  day  before  could  have  left  in  her  friend's  mind. 
Her  efforts  went  very  far.  She  would  ask  pardon  of 
her  fiance.  .  .  .  Pardon!  For  what?  For  having 
been  wounded  by  him,  wounded  to  the  depths  of  her 
sensibility?  She  felt  that  the  charity  of  judgment 
recommended  l)y  the  ])ious  Cardinal  was  a  difficult 
virtue.  It  exercises  a  disci})line  of  the  entire  heart, 
wometimes  irreconcilable  with  the  clearness  of  the  in- 

[332] 


COSMOPOLIS 

telligence.  Alba  looked  at  her  friend  with  a  glance 
full  of  an  astonishment,  almost  sorrowful,  and  she 
embraced  her,  saying: 

''Peppino  is  not  worthy  even  to  kiss  the  ground  on 
which  you  tread,  that  is  my  opinion,  and  if  he  does 
not  spend  his  entire  life  in  trying  to  be  worthy  of  you, 
it  will  be  a  crime." 

As  for  the  Prince  himself,  the  impulses  which  dic- 
tated to  his  fiancee  words  of  apology  when  he  was  in 
the  wrong,  were  not  unintelligible  to  him,  as  they 
would  have  been  to  Hafner.  He  thought  that  the 
latter  had  lectured  his  daughter,  and  he  congratulated 
himself  on  having  cut  short  at  once  that  little  comedy 
of  exaggerated  religious  feeling. 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  he,  with  condescension, 
"it  is  I  who  have  failed  in  form.  For  at  heart  you 
have  always  found  me  respectful  of  that  which  my 
fathers  respected.  But  times  have  changed,  and  cer- 
tain fanaticisms  are  no  longer  admissible.  That  is 
what  I  have  wished  to  say  to  you  in  such  a  manner 
that  you  could  take  no  offence." 

And  he  gallantly  kissed  Fanny's  tiny  hand,  not 
divining  that  he  had  redoubled  the  melancholy  of  that 
too-generous  child.  The  discord  continued  to  be  ex- 
cessive between  the  world  of  ideas  in  which  she  moved 
and  that  in  which  the  ruined  Prince  existed.  As  the 
mystics  say  with  so  much  depth,  they  were  not  of  the 
same  heaven. 

Of  all  the  chimeras  which  had  lasted  hours,  God 
alone  remained.  It  sufficed  the  noble  creature  to 
say:   "My  father  is  so  happy,  I  will  not  mar  his  joy. 

[333] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

I  will  do  my  duty  toward  my  husband.  I  will  be  so 
good  a  wife  that  I  will  transform  him.  He  has  re- 
ligion. He  has  heart.  It  will  be  my  role  to  make  of 
him  a  true  Christian.  And  then  I  shall  have  my 
children  and  the  poor."  Such  were  the  thoughts 
which  filled  the  mind  of  the  envied  betrothed.  For 
her  the  journals  began  to  describe  the  dresses  already 
prepared,  for  her  a  staff  of  tailors,  dressmakers,  needle- 
women and  jewellers  were  working;  she  would  have 
on  her  contract  the  same  signature  as  a  princess  of 
the  blood,  who  would  be  a  princess  herself  and  related 
to  one  of  the  most  glorious  aristocracies  in  the  world. 
Such  were  the  thoughts  she  would  no  doubt  have 
through  life,  as  she  walked  in  the  garden  of  the  Palais 
Castagna,  that  historical  garden  in  which  is  still  to  be 
seen  a  row  of  pear-trees,  in  the  place  where  Sixte- 
Quint,  near  death,  gathered  some  fruit.  He  tasted  it, 
and  he  said  to  Cardinal  Castagna — playing  on  t'hcir 
two  names,  his  being  Peretti — "The  pears  are  spoiled. 
The  Romans  have  had  enough.  They  will  soon  eat 
chestnuts."  That  family  anecdote  enchanted  Justus 
Hafner.  It  seemed  to  him  full  of  the  most  delightful 
humor.  He  repeated  it  to  his  colleagues  at  the  club, 
to  his  tradesmen,  to  it  mattered  not  whom.  He  did 
not  even  mistrust  Dorsenne's  irony. 

"I  met  Hafner  this  morning  on  the  Corso, "  said 
the  latter  to  Alba  at  one  of  the  soirees  at  the  end  of 
the  month,  "and  I  had  my  third  edition  of  the  pleas- 
antry on  the  {)cars  and  chestnuts.  And  then,  as  we 
took  a  few  steps  in  the  same  direction,  he  y)ointc(l  out 
to  me  the  Palais  Bonaparte,  saying,  'We  are  also  related 

[334] 


COSMOPOLIS 

to  them. '  .  .  .  Which  means  that  a  grand-nephew  of 
the  Emperor  married  a  cousin  of  Peppino.  ...  I 
swear  he  thinks  he  is  related  to  Napoleon!  .  .  .  He 
is  not  even  proud  of  it.  The  Bonapartes  are  nowhere 
when  it  is  a  question  of  nobility!  ...  I  await  the 
time  when  he  will  blush." 

"And  I  the  time  when  he  will  be  punished  as  he 
deserves,"  interrupted  Alba  Steno,  in  a  mournful 
voice.  "He  is  insolently  triumphant.  But  no.  .  .  . 
He  will  succeed.  ...  If  it  be  true  that  his  fortune  is 
one  immense  theft,  think  of  those  he  has  ruined.  In 
what  can  they  believe  in  the  face  of  his  infamous 
happiness?" 

"If  they  are  philosophers,"  replied  Dorsenne, 
laughing  still  more  gayly,  "this  spectacle  will  cause 
them  to  meditate  on  the  words  uttered  by  one  of  my 
friends:  'One  can  not  doubt  the  hand  of  God,  for 
it  created  the  world.'  Do  you  remember  a  certain 
prayer-book  of  Montluc's?" 

"The  one  which  your  friend  Montfanon  bought  to 
vex  the  poor  little  thing?" 

"Precisely.  The  old  leaguer  has  returned  it  to 
Ribalta;  the  latter  told  me  so  yesterday;  no  doubt 
in  a  spirit  of  mortification.  I  say  no  doitbt  for  I  have 
not  seen  the  poor,  dear  man  since  the  duel,  wliich  his 
impatience  toward  Ardea  and  Hafner  rendered  in- 
evitable. He  retired,  I  know  not  for  how  many  days, 
to  the  convent  of  Mount  Olivet,  near  Sienna,  where  he 
has  a  friend,  one  Abbe  de  Negro,  of  whom  he  always 
speaks  as  of  a  saint.  I  learned,  through  Rebalta, 
that  he  has  returned,  but  is  invisible.     I  tried  to  force 

[335] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

an  entrance.  In  short,  the  volume  is  again  in  the 
shop  of  the  curiosity-seeker  in  the  Rue  Borgognona,  if 
Mademoiselle  Hafner  still  wants  it!" 

''What  good  fortune!"  exclaimed  Fanny,  with  a 
sparkle  of  delight  in  her  eyes.  "I  did  not  know  what 
present  to  offer  my  dear  Cardinal.  .  .  .  Shall  we  make 
the  purchase  at  once?" 

"Montluc's  prayer-book?"  repeated  old  Ribalta, 
when  the  two  young  ladies  had  alighted  from  the 
carriage  before  his  small  book-shop,  more  dusty,  more 
littered  than  ever  with  pamphlets,  in  which  he  still  was, 
with  his  face  more  wrinkled,  more  wan  and  more 
proud,  peering  from  beneath  his  broad-brimmed  hat, 
which  he  did  not  raise.  "How  do  you  know  it  is 
here?  Who  has  told  you?  Arc  there  spies  every- 
where?" 

"It  was  Monsieur  Dorsenne,  one  of  Monsieur  de 
Montfanon's  friends,"  said  Fanny,  in  her  gentle  voice. 

"Sara  sara,^'*  replicMJ  the  merchant  with  his  ha- 
bitual insolence,  and,  opening  the  drawer  of  the  chest 
in  which  he  kept  the  most  incongruous  treasures,  he 
drew  from  it  the  precious  volume,  which  he  held  toward 
them,  without  giving  it  up.  Then  he  began  a  speech, 
which  reproduced  the  details  given  by  Montfanon 
himself.  "Ah,  it  is  very  authentic.  There  is  an  in- 
distinct but  undeniable  signature.  I  have  compared 
it  witli  that  which  is  preserved  in  the  archives  of  Sienna. 
It  is  Montluc's  writing,  and  there  is  his  escutcheon 
with  the  turtles.  .  .  .  Here,  too,  are  the  half-moons 
of  the  Piccolomini.  .  .  .  This  book  has  a  history.  .  .  . 

*That  may  be.     It  is  possible. 


COSMOPOLIS 

The  Marshal  gave  it,  after  the  famous  siege,  to  one  of 
the  members  of  that  illustrious  family.  And  it  was 
for  one  of  the  descendants  that  I  was  commissioned  to 
buy  it.  .  .  .  They  will  not  give  it  up  for  less  than 
two  thousand  francs." 

"What  a  cheat!"  said  Alba  to  her  companion,  in 
English.  "Dorsenne  told  me  that  Monsieur  de  Mon- 
fanon  bought  it  for  four  hundred." 

"Are  you  sure?"  asked  Fanny,  who,  on  receiving  a 
reply  in  the  affirmative,  addressed  the  bookseller, 
with  the  same  gentleness,  but  with  reproach  in  her 
accent:  "Two  thousand  francs.  Monsieur  Ribalta? 
But  it  is  not  a  just  price,  since  you  sold  it  to  Monsieur 
de  Montfanon  for  one-fifth  of  that  sum." 

"Then  I  am  a  liar  and  a  thief,"  roughly  replied  the 
old  man;  "a  thief  and  a  liar,"  he  repeated.  "Four 
hundred  francs!  You  wish  to  have  this  book  for  four 
hundred  francs  ?  I  wish  Monsieur  de  Montfanon  was 
here  to  tell  you  how  much  I  asked  him  for  it." 

The  old  bookseller  smiled  cruelly  as  he  replaced 
the  prayer-book  in  the  drawer,  the  key  of  which  he 
turned,  and  turning  toward  the  two  young  girls,  whose 
delicate  beauty,  heightened  by  their  fine  toilettes, 
contrasted  so  delightfully  with  the  sordid  surround- 
ings, he  enveloped  them  with  a  glance  so  malicious 
that  they  shuddered  and  instinctively  drew  nearer  one 
another.  Then  the  bookseller  resumed,  in  a  voice 
hoarser  and  deeper  than  ever:  "If  you  wish  to  spend 
four  hundred  francs  I  have  a  volume  which  is  worth 
it,  and  which  I  propose  to  take  to  the  Palais  SavorelH 
one  of  these  days.  .  .  .  Ha,  ha !  It  must  be  one  of  the 
22  [ 337  ] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

very  last,  for  the  Baron  has  bought  them  all."  In 
uttering,  those  enigmatical  words,  he  opened  the  cup- 
board which  formed  the  lower  part  of  the  chest,  and 
took  from  one  of  the  shelves  a  book  wrapped  in  a 
newspaper.  He  then  unfolded  the  journal,  and,  hold- 
ing the  volume  in  his  enormous  hand  with  his  dirty 
nails,  he  disclosed  the  title  to  the  two  young  girls: 
Hajner  and  His  Band;  Some  Reflections  on  the  Scan- 
dalous Acquittal.  By  a  Shareholder.  It  was  a  pam- 
phlet, at  that  date  forgotten,  but  which  created  much 
excitement  at  one  time  in  the  financial  circles  of  Paris, 
of  London  and  of  Berlin,  having  been  printed  at  once 
in  three  languages — in  French,  in  German  and  in  Eng- 
lish— on  the  day  after  the  suit  of  the  Credit  Austro- 
Dalmate.  The  dealer's  chestnut-colored  eyes  twinkled 
with  a  truly  ferocious  joy  as  he  held  out  the  volume 
and  repeated: 

"It  is  worth  four  hundred  francs." 

"Do  not  read  that  book,  Fanny,"  said  Alba  quickly, 
after  having  read  the  title  of  the  work,  and  again 
speaking  in  English;  "it  is  one  of  those  books  with 
which  one  should  not  even  pollute  one's  thoughts." 

"You  may  keep  the  book,  sir,"  she  continued,  "since 
you  have  made  yourself  the  accomplice  of  those  who 
have  written  it,  by  speculating  on  the  fear  you  hoped  it 
would  inspire.  Mademoiselle  Ilafncr  has  known  of  it 
long,  and  neither  she  nor  her  father  will  give  a  cen- 
time." 

"Very  well!  So  much  the  better,  so  much  the  bet- 
ter," said  Ribalta,  wrai)j)ing  up  his  volume  again; 
"Icll  your  father  I  will  kee|)  it  at  his  service." 

[33HJ 


COSMOPOLIS 

"Ah,  the  miserable  man!"  said  Alba,  when  Fanny 
and  she  had  left  the  shop  and  reentered  the  carriage. 
"To  dare  to  show  you  that!" 

"You  saw,"  replied  Fanny,  "I  was  so  surprised  I 
could  not  utter  a  word.  That  the  man  should  of- 
fer me  that  infamous  work  is  very  impertinent.  My 
father?  .  .  .  You  do  not  know  his  scrupulousness  in 
business.  It  is  the  honor  of  his  profession.  There  is 
not  a  sovereign  in  Europe  who  has  not  gi"\'en  him  a 
testimonial." 

That  impassioned  protestation  was  so  touching,  the 
generous  child's  illusion  was  so  sincere,  that  Alba 
pressed  her  hand  with  a  deeper  tenderness.  When 
Alba  found  herself  that  evening  with  her  friend  Dor- 
senne,  who  again  dined  at  Madame  Steno's,  she  took 
him  aside  to  relate  to  him  the  tragical  scene,  and  to 
ask  him:   "Have  you  seen  that  pamphlet?" 

"To-day,"  said  the  writer.  "Montfanon,  whom  I 
have  found  at  length,  has  just  bought  one  of  the  two 
copies  which  Ribalta  received  lately.  The  old  leaguer 
believes  everything,  you  know,  when  a  Hafner  is  in 
the  question.  ...  I  am  more  skeptical  in  the  bad 
as  well  as  in  the  good.  It  w^as  only  the  account  given 
by  the  trial  which  produced  any  impression  on  me, 
for  that  is  truth." 

"But  he  was  acquitted." 

"Yes,"  replied  Dorsennc,  "though  it  is  none  the 
less  true  that  he  ruined  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
persons." 

"Then,  by  the  account  given  you  of  the  case,  it  is 
clear  to  you  that  he  is  dishonest,"  interrupted  Alba. 

[339] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"As  clear  as  that  you  are  here,  Contessina,"  rephed 
Dorsenne,  "if  to  steal  means  to  plunder  one's  neigh- 
bors and  to  escape  justice.  But  that  would  be  noth- 
ing. The  sinister  corner  in  this  affair  is  the  suicide 
of  one  Schroeder,  a  brave  citizen  of  Vienna,  who  knew 
our  Baron  intimately,  and  who  invested,  on  the  advice 
of  his  excellent  friend,  his  entire  fortune,  three  hundred 
thousand  florins,  in  the  scheme.  He  lost  them,  and,  in 
despair,  killed  himself,  his  wife,  and  their  three  children." 

"My  God!"  cried  Alba,  clasping  her  hands.  "And 
Fanny  might  have  read  that  letter  in  the  book." 

"Yes,"  continued  Julien,  "and  all  the  rest  with 
proof  in  support  of  it.  But  rest  assured,  she  shall  not 
have  the  volume.  I  will  go  to  that  anarchist  of  a 
Ribalta  to-morrow  and  I  will  buy  the  last  copy,  if 
Hafner  has  not  already  bought  it." 

Notwithstanding  his  constant  affectation  of  irony, 
and,  notwithstanding,  his  assumption  of  intellectual 
egotism,  Julien  was  obliging.  He  never  hesitated  to 
render  any  one  a  service.  He  had  not  told  his  little 
friend  an  untruth  when  he  promised  her  to  buy  the 
dangerous  work,  and  the  following  morning  he  turned 
toward  the  Rue  Borgognona,  furnished  with  the  twenty 
louis  demanded  by  the  bookseller.  Imagine  his  feel- 
ings when  the  latter  said  to  him: 

"It  is  too  late.  Monsieur  Dorsenne.  The  young 
lady  was  here  last  night.  She  pretended  not  to  prefer 
one  volume  to  the  other.  It  was  to  bargain,  no  doubt. 
I  la,  ha!  But  she  had  to  pay  the  price.  I  would  have 
asked  the  father  more.  One  owes  some  considera- 
tion to  a  young  girl." 

[340] 


COSMOPOLIS 

"Wretch!"  exclaimed  the  novelist.  "And  you  can 
jest  after  having  committed  that  Judas-like  act!  To 
inform  a  child  of  her  father's  misdeeds,  when  she  is 
ignorant  of  them !  .  .  .  Never,  do  you  hear,  never  any 
more  will  Monsieur  de  Montfanon  and  I  set  foot  in 
your  shop,  nor  Monseigneur  Guerillot,  nor  any  of 
the  persons  of  my  acquaintance.  I  will  tell  the  whole 
world  of  your  infamy.  I  will  write  it,  and  it  shall 
appear  in  all  the  journals  of  Rome.  I  will  ruin  you, 
I  will  force  you  to  close  this  dusty  old  shop. " 

During  the  entire  day,  Dorsenne  vainly  tried  to  shake 
off  the  weight  of  melancholy  which  that  visit  to  the 
brigand  of  the  Rue  Borgognona  had  left  upon  his  heart. 

On  crossing,  at  nine  o'clock,  the  threshold  of  the  Villa 
Steno  to  give  an  account  of  his  mission  to  the  Con- 
tessina,  he  was  singularly  moved.  There  was  no  one 
there  but  the  Maitlands,  two  tourists  and  two  English 
diplomatists,  on  their  way  to  posts  in  the  East. 

"I  was  awaiting  you,"  said  Alba  to  her  friend,  as 
soon  as  she  could  speak  with  him  in  a  corner  of  the 
salon.  "I  need  your  advice.  Last  night  a  tragical 
incident  took  place  at  the  Hafner's. " 

"  Probably, "  replied  Dorsenne.  "  Fanny  has  bought 
Ribalta's  book." 

"She  has  bought  the  book!"  said  Alba,  changing 
color  and  trembling.  "Ah,  the  unhappy  girl;  the 
other  thing  was  not  sufficient!" 

"What  other  thing?"  questioned  Julien. 

"You  remember,"  said  the  young  girl,  "that  I  told 
you  of  that  Noe  Ancona,  the  agent  who  served  Hafner 
as  a  tool  in  selling  up  Ardea,  and  in  thus  forcing  the 

[341] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

marriage.  Well,  it  seems  this  personage  did  not  think 
himself  sufficiently  well-paid  for  his  complicity.  He 
demanded  of  the  Baron  a  large  sum,  with  which  to 
found  some  large  swindling  scheme,  which  the  latter 
refused  pointblank.  The  other  threatened  to  relate 
their  little  dealing  to  Ardea,  and  he  did  so." 

"And  Peppino  v/as  angry?"  asked  Dorsenne,  shak- 
ing his  head.     "That  is  not  like  him." 

"Indignant  or  not,"  continued  Alba,  "last  night  he 
went  to  the  Palais  Savorelli  to  make  a  terrible  scene 
with  his  future  father-in-law." 

"And  to  obtain  an  increase  of  dowry,"  said  Juhan. 

"He  was  not  by  any  means  tactful,  then,"  replied 
Alba,  "for  even  in  the  presence  of  Fanny,  who  entered 
in  the  midst  of  their  conversation,  he  did  not  pause. 
Perhaps  he  had  drunk  a  little  more  than  he  could 
stand,  which  has  of  late  become  common  with  him. 
But,  you  see,  the  poor  child  was  initiated  into  the 
abominable  bargain  with  regard  to  her  future,  to  her 
happiness,  and  if  she  has  read  the  book,  too!  It 
is  too  dreadful!" 

"What  a  violent  scene!"  exclaimed  Dorsenne.  "So 
the  engagement  has  been  broken  off?" 

"Not  officially.  Fanny  is  ill  in  bed  from  the  ex- 
citement. Ardea  came  this  morning  to  .see  my  mother, 
who  has  also  seen  Hafncr.  She  has  reconciled  them 
by^proving  to  them,  which  she  thinks  true,  that  they 
have  a  common  interest  in  avoiding  all  scandal,  and 
arranging  matters.  Ikil  it  rests  with  the  poor  little 
one.  Mamma  wi.shed  me  to  go,  this  afternoon,  to  be- 
seech h(T   to  reconsider  her  resolution.     For  she  has 


COSMOPOLIS 

told  her  father  she  never  wishes  to  hear  the  Prince's 
voice  again.  I  have  refused.  Mamma  insists.  Am 
I  not  right?" 

"Who  knows?"  rephed  JuHen.  "What  would  be 
her  life  alone  with  her  father,  now  that  her  illusions 
with  regard  to  him  have  been  swept  away?" 

The  touching  scene  had  indeed  taken  place,  and 
less  than  twenty-four  hours  after  the  novelist  had  thus 
expressed  to  himself  the  regret  of  not  assisting  at  it. 
Only  he  was  mistaken  as  to  the  tenor  of  the  dialogue, 
in  a  manner  which  proved  that  the  subtlety  of  intel- 
ligence will  never  divine  the  simplicity  of  the  heart. 
The  most  dolorous  of  all  moral  tragedies  knit  and 
unknit  the  most  often  in  silence.  It  was  in  the  after- 
noon, toward  six  o'clock,  that  a  servant  came  to 
announce  Mademoiselle  Hafner's  visit  to  the  Contes- 
sina,  busy  at  that  moment  reading  for  the  tenth  time 
the  Eglogue  Mondaine,  that  delicate  story  by  Dor- 
senne.  When  Fanny  entered  the  room.  Alba  could 
see  what  a  trial  her  charming  god-daughter  of  the  past 
week  had  sustained,  by  the  surprising  and  rapid  alter- 
ation in  that  expressive  and  noble  visage.  She  took 
her  hand  at  first  without  speaking  to  her,  as  if  she 
was  entirely  ignorant  of  the  cause  of  her  friend's  real 
indisposition.     She  then  said: 

"How  pleased  I  am  to  see  you!     Are  you  better?" 

"I  have  never  been  ill,"  replied  Fanny,  who  did  not 
know  how  to  tell  an  untruth.  "I  have  had  pain,  that 
is  all."  Looking  at  Alba,  as  if  to  beg  her  to  ask  no 
question,  she  added : 

"I  have  come  to  bid  you  adieu." 
[  343  ] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"You  are  going  away?"  asked  the  Contessina. 

''Yes,"  said  Fanny,  "I  am  going  to  spend  the  sum- 
mer at  one  of  our  estates  in  Styria. "  And,  in  a  low 
voice:  "Has  your  mother  told  you  that  my  engage- 
ment is  broken?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Alba,  and  both  were  again  silent. 
After  several  moments  Fanny  was  the  first  to  ask: 

"And  how  shall  you  spend  your  summer?" 

"We  shall  go  to  Piove,  as  usual,"  was  Alba's  answer. 
"Perhaps  Dorsenne  will  be  there,  and  the  Maitlands 
will  surely  be." 

A  third  pause  ensued.  They  gazed  at  one  another, 
and,  without  uttering  another  word,  they  distinctly 
read  one  another's  hearts.  The  martyrdom  they  suf- 
fered was  so  similar,  they  both  knew  it  to  be  so  like, 
that  they  felt  the  same  pity  possess  them  at  the  same 
moment.  Forced  to  condemn  with  the  most  irre- 
vocable condemnation,  the  one  her  father,  the  other, 
her  mother,  each  felt  attracted  toward  the  friend,  like 
her,  unhappy,  and,  falling  into  one  another's  arms, 
they  both  sobbed. 


3I- 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   LAKE   DI   PORTO 

ER  friend's  tears  had  relieved  sad 
Alba's  heart  while  she  held  that 
friend  in  her  arms,  quivering  with 
sorrow  and  pity;  but  when  she  was 
gone,  and  Madame  Steno's  daughter 
was  alone,  face  to  face  with  her 
thoughts,  a  greater  distress  seized 
her.  The  pity  which  her  companion 
in  misery  had  shown  for  her— was  it  not  one  more 
proof  that  she  was  right  in  mistrusting  her  mother  ? 

Alas!  The  miserable  child  did  not  know  that  while 
she  was  plunged  in  despair,  there  was  in  Rome  and 
in  her  immediate  vicinity  a  creature  bent  upon  realiz- 
ing a  mad  vow.  And  that  creature  was  the  same  who 
had  not  recoiled  before  the  infamy  of  an  anonymous 
letter,  pretty  and  sinister  Lydia  Maitland — that  deli- 
cate, that  silent  young  woman  with  the  large  brown 
eyes,  always  smiling,  always  impenetrable  in  the  midst 
of  that  dull  complexion  which  no  emotion,  it  seemed, 
had  ever  tinged.  The  failure  of  her  first  attempt  had 
exasperated  her  hatred  against  her  husband  and 
against  the  Countess  to  the  verge  of  fury,  but  a  con- 
centrated fury,  which  was  waiting  for  another  occasion 
to   strike,   for  weeks,   patiently,  obscurely.     She   had 

[345] 


PAUL  BOIIRGET 

thought  to  wreak  her  vengeance  by  the  return  of  Gorka, 
and  in  \A'hat  had  it  ended  ?  In  freeing  Lincoln  from  a 
dangerous  rival  and  in  imperilling  the  life  of  the  only 
being  for  whom  she  cared! 

The  sojourn  at  the  country-seat  of  her  husband's 
mistress  exasperated  Lydia's  hidden  anger.  She  suf- 
fered so  that  she  cried  aloud,  like  an  imprisoned  ani- 
mal beating  against  the  bars,  when  she  pictured  to  her- 
self the  happiness  which  the  two  lovers  would  enjoy  in 
the  intimacy  of  the  villa,  with  the  beauties  of  the  Vene- 
tian scenery  surrounding  them.  No  doubt  the  wife 
could  provoke  a  scandal  and  obtain  a  divorce,  thanks 
to  proofs  as  indisputable  as  those  with  which  she  had 
overv\^helmed  Maud.  It  would  be  sufficient  to  carry  to 
a  lawyer  the  correspondence  in  the  Spanish  escritoire. 
But  of  what  use?  She  would  not  be  avenged  on  her 
husband,  to  whom  a  divorce  would  be  a  matter  of 
indifference  now  that  he  earned  as  much  money  as 
he  required,  and  she  would  lose  her  brother.  In  vain 
Lydia  told  herself  that,  warned  as  Alba  had  been  by 
her  letter,  her  doubt  of  Madame  Steno's  misconduct 
would  no  longer  be  impossible.  She  was  convinced  by 
innumerable  trifling  signs  that  the  Contessina  still 
doubted,  and  then  she  concluded: 

"  It  is  there  that  the  blow  must  be  struck.  But  how  ?  " 
Yes.  How?  There  was  at  the  service  of  hatred  in 
that  delicate  woman,  in  apj)earance  oblivious  of  world- 
liness,  that  masculine  energy  in  decision  which  is  to  be 
found  in  all  families  of  truly  military  origin.  The 
blood  of  Colonel  Chapron  stirred  within  her  and  gave 
her  the  desire  to  act.     By  dint  of  pondering  upon  those 

l34H 


rOSMOPOTJS 

reasonings,  Lydia  ended  by  elaborating  one  of  those 
plans  of  a  simplicity  really  infernal,  in  which  she  re- 
vealed what  must  be  called  the  genius  of  evil,  for  there 
was  so  much  clearness  in  the  conception  and  of  villainy 
in  the  execution.  She  assured  herself  that  it  was  un- 
necessary to  seek  any  other  stage  than  the  studio  for 
the  scene  she  meditated.  She  knew  too  well  the  fury 
of  passion  by  which  Madame  Steno  was  possessed  to 
doubt  that,  as  soon  as  she  was  alone  with  Lincoln,  she 
did  not  refuse  him  those  kisses  of  which  their  corre- 
spondence spoke.  The  snare  to  be  laid  was  very  sim- 
ple. It  required  that  Alba  and  Lydia  should  be  in 
some  post  of  observation  while  the  lovers  believed 
themselves  alone,  were  it  only  for  a  moment.  The 
position  of  the  places  furnished  the  formidable  woman 
with  the  means  of  obtaining  the  place  of  espionage  in 
all  security.  Situated  on  the  second  floor,  the  studio 
occupied  most  of  the  depth  of  the  house.  The  wall, 
which  separated  it  from  the  side  of  the  apartments, 
ended  in  a  partition  formed  of  colored  glass,  through 
which  it  was  impossible  to  see.  That  glass  lighted  a 
dark  corridor  adjoining  the  linen-room.  Lydia  em- 
ployed several  hours  of  several  nights  in  cutting  with 
a  diamond  a  hole,  the  size  of  a  fifty  centime-piece,  in 
one  of  those  unpolished  squares. 

Her  preparations  had  been  completed  several  days 
when,  notwithstanding  her  absence  of  scruple  in  the 
satiating  of  her  hatred,  she  still  hesitated  to  employ 
that  mode  of  vengeance,  so  much  atrocious  cruelty 
was  there  in  causing  a  daughter  to  spy  upon  her  mother. 
It  was  Alba  herself  who  kindled  the  last  spark  of  hu- 

[347] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

manity  with  which  that  dark  conscience  was  hghted 
up,  and  that  by  the  most  innocent  of  conversations. 
It  was  the  very  evening  of  the  afternoon  on  which  she 
had  exchanged  that  sad  adieu  with  Fanny  Hafner, 
She  was  more  unnerved  than  usual,  and  she  was  con- 
versing with  Dorsenne  in  that  corner  of  the  long  hall. 
They  did  not  heed  the  fact  that  Lydia  drew  near  them, 
by  a  simple  change  of  seat  which  permitted  her,  while 
herself  conversing  with  some  guest,  to  lend  an  ear  to 
the  words  uttered  by  the  Contessina. 

It  was  Florent  who  was  the  subject  of  their  conver- 
sation, and  she  said  to  Dorsenne,  who  was  praising  him: 

"What  would  you  have?  It  is  true  I  almost  feel 
repulsion  toward  him.  He  is  to  me  like  a  being  of 
another  species.  His  friendship  for  his  brother-in-law  ? 
Yes.  It  is  very  beautiful,  very  touching;  but  it  does 
not  touch  me.  It  is  a  devotion  which  is  not  human. 
It  is  too  instinctive  and  too  blind.  Indeed,  I  know 
that  I  am  wrong.  There  is  that  prejudice  of  race  which 
I  can  never  entirely  overcome." 

Dorsenne  touched  her  fingers  at  that  moment,  under 
the  pretext  of  taking  from  her  her  fan,  in  reality  to 
warn  her,  and  he  said,  in  a  very  low  voice  that  time: 

"Let  us  go  a  little  farther  on.  Lydia  Maitland  is 
too  near." 

lie  fancied  he  surprised  a  start  on  the  part  of  Flo- 
rent's  sister,  at  whom  he  accidentally  glanced,  while 
his  too-sensible  interlocutor  no  longer  watched  her! 
Ikit  as  the  ])retty,  clear  laugh  of  Lydia  rang  out  at  the 
same  moment,  imprudent  Alba  replied: 

"Fortunately,  she  has  heard  nothing.  And  see  how 
[348] 


COSMOPOLIS 

one  can  speak  of  trouble  without  mistrusting  it.  ...  I 
have  just  been  wicked,"  she  continued,  "for  it  is  not 
their  fault,  neither  Florent's  nor  hers,  if  there  is  a  little 
negro  blood  in  their  veins,  so  much  the  more  so  as  it  is 
connected  by  the  blood  of  a  hero,  and  they  are  both 
perfectly  educated,  and  what  is  better,  perfectly  good, 
and  then  I  know  very  well  that  if  there  is  a  grand 
thought  in  this  age  it  is  to  have  proclaimed  that  truly 
all  men  are  brothers." 

She  had  spoken  in  a  lower  voice,  but  too  late.  More- 
over, even  if  Florent's  sister  could  have  heard  those 
words,  they  would  not  have  sufficed  to  heal  the  wound 
which  the  first  ones  had  made  in  the  most  sensitive 
part  of  her  amour  proprc ! 

"And  I  hesitated,"  said  she  to  herself,  "I  thought  of 
sparing  her!" 

The  following  morning,  toward  noon,  she  found  her- 
self at  the  atelier,  seated  beside  Madame  Steno,  while 
Lincoln  gave  to  the  portrait  the  last  touches,  and  while 
Alba  posed  in  the  large  armchair,  absent  and  pale  as 
usual.  Florent  Chapron,  after  having  assisted  at  part 
of  the  sitting,  left  the  room,  leaning  upon  the  crutch, 
which  he  still  used.  His  withdrawal  seemed  so  pro- 
pitious to  Lydia  that  she  resolved  immediately  not  to 
allow  such  an  opportunity  to  escape,  and  as  if  fatality 
interfered  to  render  her  work  of  infamy  more  easy, 
Madame  Steno  aided  her  by  suddenly  interrupting  the 
work  of  the  painter  who,  after  hard  working  without 
speaking  for  half  an  hour,  paused  to  wipe  his  forehead, 
on  which  were  large  drops  of  perspiration,  so  great 
was  his  excitement. 

[349] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"Come,  my  little  Linco,"  said  she,  with  the  affection- 
ate solicitude  of  an  old  mistress,  "you  must  rest.  For 
two  hours  you  have  not  ceased  painting,  and  such 
minute  details.  ...  It  tires  me  merely  to  watch  you." 

"I  am  not  at  all  tired,"  replied  Maitland,  who,  how- 
ever, laid  down  his  palette  and  brush,  and  rolling  a 
cigarette,  lighted  it,  continuing,  with  a  proud  smile: 
"We  have  only  that  one  superiority,  we  Americans, 
but  we  have  it — it  is  a  power  to  apply  ourselves  which 
the  Old  World  no  longer  knows.  ...  It  is  for  that 
reason  that  there  are  professions  in  which  we  have  no 
rivals." 

"But  see!"  replied  Lydia,  "you  have  taken  Alba  for 
a  Bostonian  or  a  New  Yorker,  and  you  have  made  her 
pose  so  long  that  she  is  pale.  She  must  have  a  change. 
Come  with  me,  dear,  I  will  show  you  the  costume  they 
have  sent  me  from  Paris,  and  which  I  shall  wear  this 
afternoon  to  the  garden  party  at  the  English  embassy." 

She  forced  Alba  Steno  to  rise  from  the  armchair  as 
she  uttered  those  words,  then  she  entwined  her  arms 
about  her  waist  to  draw  her  away  and  kissed  her.  Ah, 
if  ever  a  caress  merited  being  compared  to  the  hideous 
flattery  of  Iscariol,  it  was  that,  and  the  young  girl 
might  have  replied  with  the  sublime  words:  ^'Friend, 
why  hast  thou  betrayed  me  by  a  kiss  ?"  Alas!  She  be- 
lieved in  it,  in  the  sincerity  of  that  proof  of  affection, 
and  she  returned  her  false  friend's  kiss  with  a  gratitude 
which  did  not  soften  llial  heart  saturated  with  hatred, 
for  five  minutes  had  not  ]xissed  ere  Lydia  had  put  into 
execution  her  hideous  project.  Under  the  pretext  of 
reaching  the  linen-room  more  quickly,  she  took  a  ser- 

[350I 


COSMOPOLIS 

vant's  staircase,  which  led  to  that  lobby  with  the  glass 
partition,  in  which  was  the  opening  through  which  to 
look  into  the  atelier. 

"This  is  very  strange,"  said  she,  pausing  suddenly. 
And,  pointing  out  to  her  innocent  companion  the  round 
spot,  she  said :  "  Probably  some  servant  who  has  wished 
to  eavesdrop. — But  what  for?  You,  who  are  tall,  look 
and  see  how  it  has  been  done  and  what  it  looks  on. 
If  it  is  a  hole  cut  purposely,  I  shall  discover  the  culprit 
and  he  shall  go." 

Alba  obeyed  the  perfidious  request  absently,  and 
applied  her  eye  to  the  aperture.  The  author  of  the 
anonymous  letters  had  chosen  her  moment  only  too 
well.  As  soon  as  the  door  of  the  studio  was  closed, 
the  Countess  rose  to  approach  Lincoln.  She  entwined 
around  the  young  man's  neck  her  arms,  which  gleamed 
through  the  transparent  sleeves  of  her  summer  gown, 
and  she  kissed  with  greedy  lips  his  eyes  and  mouth. 
Lydia,  who  had  retained  one  of  the  girl's  hands  in  hers, 
felt  that  hand  tremble  convulsively.  A  hunter  who 
hears  rustle  the  foliage  of  the  thicket  through  which 
should  pass  the  game  he  is  awaiting,  does  not  expe- 
rience a  joy  more  complete.  Her  snare  was  successful. 
She  said  to  her  unhappy  victim : 

"What  ails  you?     How  you  tremble!" 

And  she  essayed  to  push  her  away  in  order  to  put 
herself  in  her  place.  Alba,  whom  the  sight  of  her 
mother  embracing  Lincoln  with  those  passionate  kisses 
inspired  at  that  moment  with  an  inexplicable  horror, 
had,  however,  enough  presence  of  mind  in  the  midst  of 
her  suffering  to  understand  the  danger  of  that  mother 

[351] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

whom  she  had  surprised  thus,  clasping  in  the  arms  of 
a  guilty  mistress — whom? — the  husband  of  the  very 
woman  speaking  to  her,  who  asked  her  why  she  trem- 
bled with  fear,  who  would  look  through  that  same  hole 
to  see  that  same  tableau !  ...  In  order  to  prevent  what 
she  believed  would  be  to  Lydia  a  terrible  revelation, 
the  courageous  child  had  one  of  those  desperate  thoughts 
such  as  immediate  peril  inspires.  With  her  free  hand 
she  struck  the  glass  so  violently  that  it  was  shivered 
into  atoms,  cutting  her  fingers  and  her  wrist. 

Lydia  exclaimed,  angrily: 

''Miserable  girl,  you  did  that  purposely!" 

The  fierce  creature  as  she  uttered  these  words, 
rushed  toward  the  large  hole  now  made  in  the  panel 
— too  late! 

She  only  saw  Lincoln  erect  in  the  centre  of  the 
studio,  looking  toward  the  broken  window,  while  the 
Countess,  standing  a  few  paces  from  him,  exclaimed: 

"My  daughter!  What  has  happened  to  my  daugh- 
ter?    I  recognized  her  voice." 

"Do  not  alarm  yourself,"  replied  Lydia,  with  atro- 
cious sarcasm.  "Alba  broke  the  pane  to  give  you  a 
warning." 

"But,  is  she  hurt?"  asked  the  mother. 

"Very  slightly,"  replied  the  implacable  woman  with 
the  same  accent  of  irony,  and  she  turned  again  toward 
the  Contcssina  with  a  glance  of  such  rancor  that,  even 
in  the  state  of  confusion  in  which  the  latter  was  plunged 
by  that  which  she  had  surprised,  that  glance  paralyzed 
her  with  fear.  She  felt  the  same  shudder  which  had 
possessed  her  dear  friend  Maud,  in  that  same  studio, 

L352] 


COSMOPOLIS 

in  the  face  of  the  sinister  depths  of  that  dark  soul,  sud- 
denly exposed.  She  had  not  time  to  precisely  define 
her  feelings,  for  already  her  mother  was  beside  her, 
pressing  her  in  her  arms — in  those  very  arms  which 
Alba  had  just  seen  twined  around  the  neck  of  a  lover 
— while  that  same  mouth  showered  kisses  upon  him. 
The  moral  shock  was  so  great  that  the  young  girl 
fainted.  She  regained  consciousness  and  almost  at 
once.  She  saw  her  mother  as  mad  with  anxiety  as 
she  had  just  seen  her  trembling  with  joy  and  love. 
She  again  saw  Lydia  Maitland's  eyes  fixed  upon  them 
both  with  an  expression  too  significant  now.  And, 
as  she  had  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  save  that  guilty 
mother,  she  found  in  her  tenderness  the  strength  to 
smile  at  her,  to  lie  to  her,  to  blind  her  forever  as  to  the 
truth  of  that  hideous  scene  which  had  just  been  enacted 
in  that  lobby. 

"I  was  frightened  at  the  sight  of  my  own  blood," 
said  she,  ''and  I  believe  it  is  only  a  small  cut.  .  .  .  See! 
I  can  move  my  hand  without  pain." 

When  the  doctor,  hastily  summoned,  had  confirmed 
that  no  particles  of  glass  had  remained  in  the  cuts,  the 
Countess  felt  so  reassured  that  her  gayety  returned. 
Never  had  she  been  in  a  mood  more  charming  than 
in  the  carriage  which  took  them  to  the  Villa  Steno. 

To  a  person  obliged  by  proof  to  condemn  another 
without  ceasing  to  love  her,  there  is  no  greater  sorrow 
than  to  perceive  the  absolute  unconsciousness  of  that 
other  person  and  her  serenity  in  her  fault.  Poor  Alba 
felt  overwhelmed  by  a  sadness  greater,  more  depress- 
ing still,  and  which  became  materially  insupportable, 
23  [  353  ] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

when,  toward  half-past  two,  her  mother  bade  her  fare- 
well, although  the  fete  at  the  English  embassy  did  not 
begin  until  five  o'clock. 

"I  promised  poor  Hafner  to  go  to  see  him  to-day. 
I  know  he  is  bowed  down  with  grief.  I  would  like  to 
try  to  arrange  all.  ...  I  will  send  back  the  carriage 
if  you  wish  to  go  out  awhile.  I  have  telephoned  Lydia 
to  expect  me  at  four  o'clock.  .  .  .  She  will  take  me." 

She  had,  on  detailing  the  employment  so  natural  of 
her  afternoon,  eyes  too  brilliant,  a  smile  too  happy. 
She  looked  too  youthful  in  her  light  toilette.  Her  feet 
trembled  with  too  nervous  an  impatience.  How  could 
Alba  not  have  felt  that  she  was  telling  her  an  untruth  ? 
The  undeceived  child  had  the  intuition  that  the  visit 
to  Fanny's  father  was  only  a  pretext.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  that  the  Countess  employed  it  to  free  herself 
from  inconvenient  surveillance,  the  act  of  sending  back 
the  carriage,  which,  in  Rome  as  in  Paris,  is  always  the 
probable  sign  of  clandestine  meetings  with  women  of 
their  rank.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  Alba  was  pos- 
sessed by  suspicion  on  certain  mysterious  disappear- 
ances of  her  mother.  That  mother  did  not  mistrust  that 
poor  Alba — her  Alba,  the  child  so  tenderly  loved  in  spite 
of  all — was  suffering  at  that  very  moment  and  on  her  ac- 
count the  most  terrible  of  temptations.  .  .  .  When  the 
carriage  had  disappeared  the  fixed  gaze  of  the  young 
girl  was  turned  upon  the  pavement,  and  then  she  felt 
arise  in  her  a  sudden,  instinctive,  almost  irresistible 
idea  to  end  the  moral  suffering  by  which  .she  was  de- 
voured. It  was  so  simple!  ...  It  was  sufficient  to 
end  life.     One  movement  which  she  could  make,  one 

[354] 


COSMOPOLIS 

single  movement — she  could  lean  over  the  balustrade, 
against  which  her  arm  rested,  in  a  certain  manner — • 
so,  a  little  more  forward,  a  little  more — and  that  suffer- 
ing would  be  terminated.  Yes,  it  would  be  so  very 
simple.  She  saw  herself  lying  upon  the  pavement,  her 
limbs  broken,  her  head  crushed,  dead— dead — freed! 
She  leaned  forward  and  was  about  to  leap,  when  her 
eyes  fell  upon  a  person  who  was  walking  below,  the 
sight  of  whom  suddenly  aroused  her  from  the  folly, 
the  strange  charm  of  which  had  just  laid  hold  so 
powerfully  upon  her.  She  drew  back.  She  rubbed 
her  eyes  with  her  hands,  and  she,  who  was  accustomed 
to  mystical  enthusiasm,  said  aloud : 

"My  God!  You  send  him  to  me!  I  am  saved." 
And  she  summoned  the  footman  to  tell  him  that  if 
M.  Dorsenne  asked  for  her,  he  should  be  shown  into 
Madame  Steno's  small  salon.  "I  am  not  at  home  to 
any  one  else,"  she  added. 

It  was  indeed  Julien,  whom  she  had  seen  approach 
the  house  at  the  very  instant  when  she  was  only  sep- 
arated from  the  abyss  by  that  last  tremor  of  animal 
repugnance,  which  is  found  even  in  suicide  of  the 
most  ardent  kind.  Do  not  madmen  themselves  choose 
to  die  in  one  manner  rather  than  in  another?  She 
paused  several  moments  in  order  to  collect  herself. 

"Yes,"  said  she  at  length,  to  herself,  "it  is  the  only 
solution.  I  will  find  out  if  he  loves  me  truly.  And  if 
he  does  not?" 

She  again  looked  toward  the  \\indow,  in  order  to 
assure  herself  that,  in  case  that  conversation  did  not 
end  as  she  desired,  the  tragical  and  simple  means  re- 

[355] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

mained  at  her  service  by  which  to  free  herself  from  that 
infamous  Hfe  which  she  surely  could  not  bear. 

Julien  began  the  conversation  in  his  tone  of  senti- 
mental raillery,  so  speedily  to  be  transformed  into  one 
of  drama!  He  knew  very  well,  on  arriving  at  Villa 
Steno,  that  he  was  to  have  his  last  tete-a-tete  with  his 
pretty  and  interesting  little  friend.  For  he  had  at 
length  decided  to  go  away,  and,  to  be  more  sure  of  not 
failing,  he  had  engaged  his  sleeping-berth  for  that  night. 
He  had  jested  so  much  with  love  that  he  entered  upon 
that  conversation  with  a  jest;  when,  having  tried  to 
take  Alba's  hand  to  press  a  kiss  upon  it,  he  saw  that 
it  was  bandaged. 

"What  has  happened  to  you,  little  Countess?  Have 
my  laurels  or  those  of  Florent  Chapron  prevented  you 
from  sleeping,  that  you  are  here  with  the  classical  wrist 
of  a  duellist  ?  .  .  .  Seriously,  how  have  you  hurt  your- 
self?" 

"I  leaned  against  a  window,  which  broke  and  the 
pieces  of  glass  cut  my  fingers  somewhat,"  replied  the 
young  girl  with  a  faint  smile,  adding:   "It  is  nothing." 

"What  an  imprudent  child  you  are!"  said  Dorsenne 
in  his  tone  of  friendly  scolding.  "Do  you  know  that 
you  might  have  severed  an  artery  and  have  caused  a 
very  serious,  perhaps  a  fatal,  hemorrhage?" 

"That  would  not  have  been  such  a  great  misfor- 
tune," replied  Alba,  shaking  her  pretty  head  with  an 
expression  so  bitter  about  her  mouth  that  the  young 
man,  too,  cea.sed  smiling. 

"Do  not  speak  in  that  tone,"  said  he,  "or  T  shall 
think  you  did  it  purposely." 

L356] 


COSMOPOLIS 

"  Purposely  ?  "  repeated  the  young  girl.  "  Purposely  ? 
Why  should  I  have  done  it  purposely?" 

And  she  blushed  and  laughed  in  the  same  nervous 
way  she  had  laughed  fifteen  minutes  before,  when 
she  looked  down  into  the  street.  Dorsenne  felt  that 
she  was  suffering,  and  his  heart  contracted.  The 
trouble  against  which  he  had  struggled  for  several 
days  with  all  the  energy  of  an  independent  artist,  and 
which  for  some  time  systematized  his  celibacy,  again 
oppressed  him.  He  thought  it  time  to  put  between 
''folly"  and  him  the  irreparability  of  his  categorical 
resolution.  So  he  replied  to  his  Httle  friend  with  his 
habitual  gentleness,  but  in  a  tone  of  firmness,  which 
already  announced  his  determination: 

"I  have  again  vexed  you,  Contessina,  and  you  are 
looking  at  me  with  the  glance  of  our  hours  of  dispute. 
You  will  later  regret  having  been  unkind  to-day." 

As  he  pronounced  those  enigmatical  words,  she  saw 
that  he  had  in  his  eyes  and  in  his  smile  something  dif- 
ferent and  indefinable.  It  must  have  been  that  she 
loved  him  still  more  than  she  herself  believed,  as  for 
a  second  she  forgot  both  her  own  pain  and  her  resolu- 
tion, and  she  asked  him,  quickly: 

"You  have  some  trouble ?  You  are  suffering ?  Wliat 
is  it?" 

"Nothing,"  repHed  Dorsenne.  "But  time  is  flying, 
the  minutes  arc  going  by,  and  not  only  the  minutes. 
There  is  an  old  and  charming  French  ode,  which  you 
do  not  know  and  which  begins: 

" Le  temps  s'en  va,  le  temps  s'en  va,  Madame.^' 

"  Las,  le  temps  ?     Non.     Mais  nous  nous  en  allons." 

[357] 


PAUL  BOITRGET 

"Which  means,  little  Countess,  in  simple  prose,  that 
this  is  no  doubt  the  last  conversation  we  shall  have  to- 
gether this  season,  and  that  it  would  be  cruel  to  mar 
for  me  this  last  visit." 

"Do  I  understand  you  aright?"  said  Alba.  She, 
too,  knew  too  well  Julien's  way  of  speaking  not  to 
know  that  that  mannerism,  half -mocking,  half -senti- 
mental, always  served  him  to  prepare  phrases  more 
grave,  and  against  the  emotion  of  which  her  fear  of 
appearing  a  dupe  rose  in  advance.  She  crossed  her 
arms  upon  her  breast,  and  after  a  pause  she  continued, 
in  a  grave  voice:   "You  are  going  away?" 

"Yes,"-  he  repHed,  and  from  his  coat-pocket  he 
partly  drew  his  ticket.  "You  see  I  have  acted  like 
the  poltroons  who  cast  themselves  into  the  water.  My 
ticket  is  bought,  and  I  shall  no  longer  hold  that  little 
discourse  which  I  have  held  for  months,  that,  Sir  ex- 
ecutioner, one  moment.  .  .  .  Du  Barry^ 

"You  are  going  away?"  repeated  the  young  girl, 
who  did  not  seem  to  have  heeded  the  jest  by  which 
Julien  had  concealed  his  own  confusion  at  the  effect 
of  his  so  abruptly  announced  departure.  "I  shall  not 
see  you  any  more !  .  .  .  And  if  I  ask  you  not  to  go  yet  ? 
You  have  spoken  to  me  of  our  friendship.  ...  If  I 
pray  you,  if  I  beseech  you,  in  the  name  of  that  friend- 
ship, not  to  deprive  me  of  it  at  this  instant,  when  I  have 
no  one,  when  I  am  so  alone,  so  horribly  alone,  will  you 
answer  no?  You  have  often  lold  me  that  you  were  my 
friend,  my  true  friend?  If  it  be  true,  you  will  not  go. 
I  repeat,  I  am  alone,  and  I  am  afraid." 

"Come,  little  Countess,"  replied  Dorsenne,  who  l)e- 
l35«J 


COSMOPOLIS 

gan  to  be  terrified  by  the  young  girl's  sudden  excite- 
ment, "it  is  not  reasonable  to  agitate  yourself  thus, 
because  yesterday  you  had  a  very  sad  conversation 
with  Fanny  Hafner!  First,  it  is  altogether  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  defer  my  departure.  You  force  me  to 
give  you  coarse,  almost  commercial  reasons.  But  my 
book  is  about  to  appear,  and  I  must  be  there  for  the 
launching  of  the  sale,  of  which  I  have  already  told  you. 
And  then  you  are  going  away,  too.  You  will  have  all 
the  diversions  of  the  country,  of  your  Venetian  friends 
and  charming  Lydia  Maitland!" 

"Do  not  mention  that  name,"  interrupted  Alba, 
whose  face  became  discomposed  at  the  allusion  to  the 
sojourn  at  Piove.  "You  do  not  know  how  you  pain 
me,  nor  what  that  woman  is,  what  a  monster  of  cruelty 
and  of  perfidy!  Ask  me  no  more.  I  shall  tell  you 
nothing.  But,"  the  Contessina  that  time  clasping  her 
hands,  her  poor,  thin  hands,  which  trembled  wdth  the 
anguish  of  the  words  she  dared  to  utter,  "do  you  not 
comprehend  that  if  I  speak  to  you  as  I  do,  it  is  because  I 
have  need  of  you  in  order  to  live  ?  "  Then  in  a  low  voice, 
choked  by  emotion:  "It  is  because  I  love  you!"  All 
the  modesty  natural  to  a  child  of  twenty  mounted  to  her 
pale  face  in  a  flood  of  purple,  when  she  had  uttered  that 
avowal.  "Yes,  I  love  you!"  she  repeated,  in  an  accent 
as  deep,  but  more  firm.  "  It  is  not,  however,  so  common 
a  thing  to  fmd  real  devotion,  a  being  who  only  asks  to  serve 
you,  to  be  useful  to  you,  to  Hve  in  your  shadow.  And 
you  will  understand  that  to  have  the  right  of  giving 
you  my  life,  to  bear  your  name,  to  be  your  wife,  to 
follow  you,  I  felt  very  vividly  in  your  presence  at  the 

[359] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

moment  I  was  about  to  lose  you.  You  will  pardon  my 
lack  of  modesty  for  the  first,  for  the  last  time.  I  have 
suffered  too  much." 

She  ceased.  Never  had  the  absolute  purity  of  the 
charming  creature,  born  and  bred  in  an  atmosphere  of 
corruption,  and  remaining  in  the  same  so  intact,  so 
noble,  so  frank,  flashed  out  as  at  that  moment.  All 
that  virgin  and  unhappy  soul  was  in  her  eyes  which 
implored  Julien,  on  her  lips  which  trembled  at  having 
spoken  thus,  on  her  brow  around  which  floated,  like 
an  aureole,  the  fair  hair  stirred  by  the  breeze  which 
entered  the  open  window.  She  had  found  the  means 
of  daring  that  prodigious  step,  the  boldest  a  woman 
can  permit  herself,  still  more  so  a  young  girl,  with  so 
chaste  a  simplicity  that  at  that  moment  Dorsenne 
would  not  have  dared  to  touch  even  the  hand  of  that 
child  who  confided  herself  to  him  so  madly,  so  loyally. 

Dorsenne  was  undoubtedly  greatly  interested  in  her, 
with  a  curiosity,  without  enthusiasm,  and  against  which 
a  reaction  had  already  set  in.  That  touching  speech, 
in  which  trembled  a  distress  so  tender  and  each  word 
of  which  later  on  made  him  weep  with  regret,  produced 
upon  him  at  that  moment  an  impression  of  fear  rather 
than  love  or  pity.  When  at  length  he  broke  the  cruel 
silence,  the  sound  of  his  voice  revealed  to  the  unhappy 
girl  the  uselessness  of  that  suj)reme  appeal  addressed 
by  her  lo  life. 

She  liad  only  kept,  to  exorcise  the  demon  of  suicide, 
her  hoj)e  in  the  heart  of  that  man,  and  that  heart,  to- 
ward which  she  turned  in  so  immoderate  a  transport, 
drew  back  instead  of  responding. 

[360  J 


COSMOPOLIS 

"  Calm  yourself,  I  beseech  you,"  said  he  to  her.  "  You 
can  understand  that  I  am  very  much  moved,  very  much 
surprised,  at  what  I  have  heard !  I  did  not  suspect  it. 
My  God!  How  troubled  you  are.  And  yet,"  he  con- 
tinued with  more  firmness,  "  I  should  despise  myself  were 
I  to  lie  to  you.  You  have  been  so  loyal  toward  me.  .  .  . 
To  marry  you?  Ah,  it  would  be  the  most  delightful 
dream  of  happiness  if  that  dream  were  not  prevented  by 
honesty.  Poor  child,"  and  his  voice  sounded  almost 
bitter,  "you  do  not  know  me.  You  do  not  know  what 
a  writer  of  my  order  is,  and  that  to  unite  your  destiny  to 
mine  would  be  for  you  martyrdom  more  severe  than  your 
moral  solitude  of  to-day.  You  see,  I  came  to  your  home 
with  so  much  joy,  because  I  was  free,  because  each 
time  I  could  say  to  myself  that  I  need  not  return  again. 
Such  a  confession  is  not  romantic.  But  it  is  thus.  If 
that  relation  became  a  bond,  an  obligation,  a  fixed 
framework  in  which  to  move,  a  circle  of  habits  in  which 
to  imprison  me,  I  should  only  have  one  thought — flight. 
An  engagement  for  my  entire  life?  No,  no,  I  could 
not  bear  it.  There  are  souls  of  passage  as  well  as  birds 
of  passage,  and  I  am  one.  You  will  understand  it  to- 
morrow, now,  and  you  will  remember  that  I  have 
spoken  to  you  as  a  man  of  honor,  who  would  be  miser- 
able if  he  thought  he  had  augmented,  involuntarily, 
the  sorrows  of  your  life  when  his  only  desire  was  to 
assuage  them.  My  God!  What  is  to  be  done?"  he 
cried,  on  seeing,  as  he  spoke,  tears  gush  from  the 
young  girl's  eyes,  which  she  did  not  wipe  away. 

"Go  away,"  she  replied,  "leave  me.  I  do  not  want 
you.     I  am  grateful  to  you  for  not  having  deceived  me. 

[361] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

But  your  presence  is  too  cruel.  I  am  ashamed  of  hav- 
ing spoken  to  you,  now  that  I  know  you  do  not  love 
me.  I  have  been  mad,  do  not  punish  me  by  remaining 
longer.  After  the  conversation  we  have  just  had,  my 
honor  will  not  permit  us  to  talk  longer." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Julien,  after  another  pause. 
He  took  his  hat,  which  he  had  placed  upon  a  table  at 
the  beginning  of  that  visit,  so  rapidly  and  abruptly 
terminated  by  a  confession  of  sentiments  so  strange. 
He  said: 

"Then,  farewell."  She  inclined  her  fair  head  with- 
out replying. 

The  door  was  closed.  Alba  Steno  was  again  alone. 
Half  an  hour  later,  when  the  footman  entered  to  ask 
for  orders  relative  to  the  carriage  sent  back  by  the 
Countess,  he  found  her  standing  motionless  at  the 
window  from  which  she  had  watched  Dorsenne  depart. 
There  she  had  once  more  been  seized  by  the  tempta- 
tion of  suicide.  She  had  again  felt  with  an  irresistible 
force  the  magnetic  attraction  of  death.  Life  appeared 
to  her  once  more  as  something  too  vile,  too  useless,  too 
insupportable  to  be  borne.  The  carriage  was  at  her 
dispo.sal.  By  way  of  the  Portese  gate  and  along  the 
Tiber,  with  the  Countess's  horses,  it  would  take  an  hour 
and  a  half  to  reach  the  Lake  di  Porto.  She  had,  too,  this 
pretext,  to  avoid  the  curiosity  of  the  servants:  one  of 
the  Roman  noblewomen  of  her  acquaintance,  Princess 
Torlonia,  owned  an  isolated  villa  on  the  border  of  that 
lake.  .  .  .  She  ascended  hastily  to  don  her  hat.  And 
without  writing  a  word  of  farewell  to  any  one,  without 
even  casting  a  glance  at  the  objects  among  which  she 

[362] 


COSMOPOLIS 

had  lived  and  suffered,  she  descended  the  staircase  and 
gave  the  coachman  the  name  of  the  villa,  adding: 
''Drive  quickly;  I  am  late  now." 

The  Lake  di  Porto  is  only,  as  its  name  indicates, 
the  port  of  the  ancient  Tiber.  The  road  which  leads 
from  Transtevere  runs  along  the  river,  which  rolls 
through  a  plain  strewn  with  ruins  and  indented  with 
barren  hills,  its  brackish  water  discolored  from  the 
sand  and  mud  of  the  Apennines. 

Here  groups  of  eucalyptus,  there  groups  of  pine 
parasols  above  some  ruined  walls,  were  all  the  vegeta- 
tion which  met  Alba  Steno's  eye.  But  the  scene  ac- 
corded so  well  with  the  moral  devastation  she  bore 
within  her  that  the  barrenness  around  her  in  her  last 
walk  was  pleasant  to  her. 

The  feeling  that  she  was  nearing  eternal  peace, 
final  sleep  in  which  she  should  suffer  no  more,  aug- 
mented when  she  alighted  from  the  carriage,  and, 
having  passed  the  garden  of  Villa  Torlonia,  she  found 
herself  facing  the  small  lake,  .so  grandiose  in  its  small- 
ness  by  the  wildness  of  its  surroundings,  and  motion- 
less, surprised  in  even  that  supreme  moment  by  the 
magic  of  that  hidden  sight,  she  paused  amid  the  reeds 
with  their  red  tufts  to  look  at  that  pond  which  was  to 
become  her  tomb,  and  she  murmured : 

"How  beautiful  it  is!  " 

There  was  in  the  humid  atmosphere  which  gradually 
penetrated  her  a  charm  of  mortal  rest,  to  which  she 
abandoned  herself  dreamily,  almost  with  physical  volup- 
tuousness, drinking  into  her  being  the  feverish  fumes 
of  that  place — one  of  the  most  fatal  at  that  season  and 

[363] 


PAUL  BOX RGET 

at  that  hour  of  all  that  dangerous  coast — until  she  shud- 
dered in  her  light  summer  gown.  Her  shoulders  con- 
tracted, her  teeth  chattered,  and  that  feeling  of  dis- 
comfort was  to  her  as  a  signal  for  action.  She  took 
another  allee  of  rose-bushes  in  flower  to  reach  a  point 
on  the  bank  barren  of  vegetation,  where  was  outlined 
the  form  of  a  boat.  She  soon  detached  it,  and,  manag- 
ing the  heavy  oars  with  her  delicate  hands,  she  ad- 
vanced toward  the  middle  of  the  lake. 

When  she  was  in  the  spot  which  she  thought  the 
deepest  and  the  most  suitable  for  her  design,  she 
ceased  rowing.  Then,  by  a  delicate  care,  which  made 
her  smile  herself,  so  much  did  it  betray  instinctive  and 
childish  order  at  such  a  solemn  moment,  she  put  her 
hat,  her  umbrella  and  her  gloves  on  one  of  the  trans- 
versal boards  of  the  boat.  She  had  made  a  great 
effort  to  move  the  heavy  oars,  so  that  she  was  perspir- 
ing. A  second  shudder  seized  her  as  she  was  arrang- 
ing the  trifling  objects,  so  keen,  so  chilly,  so  intense 
that  time  that  she  paused.  She  lay  there  motionless, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  water,  whose  undulations 
lapped  the  boat.  At  the  last  moment  she  felt  reenter 
her  heart,  not  love  of  life,  but  love  for  her  mother. 
All  the  details  of  the  events  which  would  follow  her 
suicide  were  presented  to  her  mind. 

She  saw  herself  plunging  into  the  deep  water  which 
would  close  over  her  head.  Her  suffering  would  be 
ended,  but  Madame  Steno?  She  saw  the  coachman 
growing  uneasy  over  her  absence,  ringing  at  the  door 
of  Villa  Torlonia,  the  servants  in  search.  The  loosened 
boat  would  relate  enough.     Would  the  Countess  know 

I  364  ] 


COSMOPOLIS 

that  she  had  killed  herself?  Would  she  know  the 
cause  of  that  desperate  end?  The  terrible  face  of 
Lydia  Maitland  appeared  to  the  young  girl.  She  com- 
prehended that  the  woman  hated  her  enemy  too  much 
not  to  enlighten  her  with  regard  to  the  circumstances 
which  had  preceded  that  suicide.  The  cry  so  simple 
and  of  a  significance  so  terrible:  "You  did  it  purpose- 
ly!" returned  to  Alba's  memory.  She  saw  her  mother 
learning  that  her  daughter  had  seen  all.  She  had  loved 
her  so  much,  that  mother,  she  loved  her  so  dearly  still! 

Then,  as  a  third  violent  chill  shook  her  from  head  to 
foot.  Alba  began  to  think  of  another  mode,  and  one  as 
sure,  of  death  without  any  one  in  the  world  being  able 
to  suspect  that  it  was  voluntary.  She  recalled  the  fact 
that  she  was  in  one  of  the  most  dreaded  corners  of  the 
Roman  Campagna;  that  she  had  known  persons  car- 
ried off  in  a  few  days  by  the  pernicious  fevers  con- 
tracted in  similar  places,  at  that  hour  and  in  that  sea- 
son, notably  one  of  her  friends,  one  of  the  Bonapartes 
living  in  Rome,  who  came  thither  to  hunt  when  over- 
heated. If  she  were  to  try  to  catch  that  same  disease? 
.  .  .  And  she  took  up  the  oars.  When  she  felt  her 
brow  moist  with  the  second  effort,  she  opened  her 
bodice  and  her  chemise,  she  exposed  her  neck,  her 
breast,  her  throat,  and  she  lay  down  in  the  boat,  allow- 
ing the  damp  air  to  envelop,  to  caress,  to  chill  her, 
inviting  the  entrance  into  her  blood  of  the  fatal  germs. 
How  long  did  she  remain  thus,  half-unconscious,  in  the 
atmosphere  more  and  more  laden  with  miasma  in  pro- 
portion as  the  sun  sank?  A  cry  made  her  rise  and 
again  take  up  the  oars.     It  was  the  coachman,  who, 

[365] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

not  seeing  her  return,  had  descended  from  the  box  and 
was  hailing  the  boat  at  all  hazards.  When  she  stepped 
upon  the  bank  and  when  he  saw  her  so  pale,  the  man, 
who  had  been  in  the  Countess's  service  for  years,  could 
not  help  saying  to  her,  with  the  familiarity  of  an  Italian 
servant : 

"You  have  taken  cold,  Mademoiselle,  and  this  place 
is  so  dangerous." 

"Indeed,"  she  replied,  "I  have  had  a  chill.  It  will 
be  nothing.  Let  us  return  quickly.  Above  all,  do  not 
say  that  I  was  in  the  boat.  You  will  cause  me  to  be 
scolded." 


1 366] 


CHAPTER  XII 

EPILOGUE 


[ND  it  was  directly  after  that  conver- 
sation that  the  poor  child  left  for 
the  lake,  where  she  caught  the  per- 
nicious fever?"  asked  Montfanon. 

"Directly,"  replied  Dorsenne,  "and 
what  troubles  me  the  most  is  that  I 
can  not  doubt  but  that  she  went 
there  purposely.  I  was  so  troubled 
by  our  conversation  that  I  had  not  the  strength  to 
leave  Rome  the  same  evening,  as  I  told  her  I  should. 
After  much  hesitation — you  understand  why,  now  that 
I  have  told  you  all — I  returned  to  the  Villa  Steno  at 
six  o'clock.  To  speak  to  her,  but  of  what?  Did  I 
know  ?  It  was  madness.  For  her  avowal  only  allowed 
of  two  replies,  either  that  which  I  made  her  or  an  offer 
of  marriage.  Ah,  I  did  not  reason  so  much.  I  was 
afraid.  .  .  .  Of  what?  .  .  .  I  do  not  know.  I  reached 
the  villa,  where  I  found  the  Countess,  gay  and  radiant, 
as  was  her  custom,  and  tete-a-tete  with  her  American. 
'Only  think,  there  is  my  child,'  said  she  to  me,  'who 
has  refused  to  go  to  the  English  embassy,  where  she 
would  enjoy  herself,  and  who  has  gone  out  for  a  drive 
alone.  .  .  .  Will  you  await  her?'  " 

[367] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

"At  length  she  began  to  grow  uneasy,  and  I,  seeing 
that  no  one  returned,  took  my  leave,  my  heart  op- 
pressed by  presentiments.  .  .  .  Alba's  carriage  stopped 
at  the  door  just  as  I  was  going  out.  She  was  pale,  of 
a  greenish  pallor,  which  caused  me  to  say  on  approach- 
ing her:  'Whence  have  you  come?'  as  if  I  had  the 
right.  Her  lips,  already  discolored,  trembled  as  they 
replied.  When  I  learned  where  she  had  spent  that 
hour  of  sunset,  and  near  what  lake,  the  most  deadly 
in  the  neighborhood,  I  said  to  her:  'What  imprudence!' 
I  shall  all  my  life  see  the  glance  she  gave  me  at  the 
moment,  as  she  replied:  'Say,  rather,  how  wise,  and 
pray  that  I  may  have  taken  the  fever  and  that  I  die  of 
it.'  You  know  the  rest,  and  how  her  wish  has  been 
realized.  She  indeed  contracted  the  fever,  and  so 
severely  that  she  died  in  less  than  six  days.  I  have  no 
doubt,  since  her  last  words,  that  it  was  a  suicide." 

"And  the  mother,"  asked  Montfanon,  "did  she  not 
comprehend  finally?" 

"Absolutely  nothing,"  replied  Dorsenne.  "It  is  in- 
conceivable, but  it  is  thus.  Ah!  she  is  truly  the 
worthy  friend  of  that  knave  Hafner,  whom  his  daugh- 
ter's broken  engagement  has  not  grieved,  in  spite  of 
his  discomfiture.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  he  had  just 
sold  Palais  Castagna  to  a  joint-stock  company  to  con- 
vert it  into  a  hotel.  I  laugh,"  he  continued  with  sin- 
gular acrimony,  "in  order  not  to  weep,  for  I  am  arriv- 
ing at  the  most  heartrending  |)art.  Do  you  know 
where  I  .saw  poor  Alba  Steno's  face  for  the  last  time? 
It  was  three  days  ago,  the  day  after  her  death,  at  this 
hour.     I  called  to  inquire  for  the  Countess!    She  was 

[  .S68  ] 


COSMOPOLIS 

receiving !  *  Do  you  wish  to  bid  her  adieu  ? '  she  asked 
me.  'Good  Lincoln  is  just  molding  her  face  for  me.' 
And  I  entered  the  chamber  of  death.  Her  eyes  were 
closed,  her  cheeks  were  sunken,  her  pretty  nose  was 
pinched,  and  upon  her  brow  and  in  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  was  a  mixture  of  bitterness  and  of  repose  which 
I  can  not  describe  to  you.  I  thought:  'If  you  had 
liked,  she  would  be  alive,  she  would  smile,  she  would 
love  you!'  The  American  was  beside  the  bed,  while 
Florent  Chapron,  always  faithful,  was  preparing  the 
oil  to  put  upon  the  face  of  the  corpse,  and  sinister 
Lydia  Maitland  was  watching  the  scene  with  eyes 
which  made  me  shudder,  reminding  me  of  what  I  had 
divined  at  the  time  of  my  last  conversation  with  Alba. 
If  she  does  not  undertake  to  play  the  part  of  a  Nemesis 
and  to  tell  all  to  the  Countess,  I  am  mistaken  in  faces! 
For  the  moment  she  was  silent,  and  guess  the  only 
words  the  mother  uttered  when  her  lover,  he  on  whose 
account  her  daughter  had  suffered  so  much,  approached 
their  common  victim:  'Above  all,  do  not  injure  her 
lovely  lashes!^  What  horrible  irony,  was  it  not? 
Horrible!" 

The  young  man  sank  upon  a  bench  as  he  uttered 
that  cry  of  distress  and  of  remorse,  which  Montfanon 
mechanically  repeated,  as  if  startled  by  the  tragical 
confidence  he  had  just  received. 

Montfanon  shook  his  gray  head  several  times  as  if 
deliberating ;  then  forced  Dorsenne  to  rise,  chiding  him 
thus: 

"  Come,  Julien,  we  can  not  remain  here  all  the  after- 
noon dreaming  and  sighing  like  young  women!  The 
24  [369] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

child  is  dead.  We  can  not  restore  her  to  Hfe,  you  in 
despairing,  I  in  deploring.  We  should  do  better  to  look 
in  the  face  our  responsibility  in  that  sinister  adventure, 
to  repent  of  it  and  to  expiate  it." 

"Our  responsibility?"  interrogated  Julien.  ''I  see 
mine,  although  I  can  truly  not  see  yours." 

"Yours  and  mine,"  rephed  Montfanon.  "I  am  no 
sophist,  and  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  shifting  my  con- 
science. Yes  or  no,"  he  insisted,  ^vith  a  return  of  his 
usual  excitement,  "did  I  leave  the  catacombs  to  ar- 
range that  unfortunate  duel?  Yes  or  no,  did  I  yield 
to  the  paroxysm  of  choler  which  possessed  me  on  hear- 
ing of  the  engagement  of  Ardea  and  on  finding  that  I 
was  in  the  presence  of  that  equivocal  Hafner  ?  Yes  or 
no,  did  that  duel  help  to  enlighten  Madame  Gorka  as 
to  her  husband's  doings,  and,  in  consequence,  Made- 
moiselle Steno  as  to  her  mother's  ?  Did  you  not  relate 
to  me  the  progress  of  her  anguish  since  that  scandal, 
there  just  now  ?  .  .  .  And  if  I  have  been  startled,  as  I 
have  been,  by  the  news  of.  that  suicide,  know  it  has 
been  for  this  reason  especially,  because  a  voice  has 
said  to  me :  *  A  few  of  the  tears  of  that  dead  girl  are 
laid  to  your  account.'" 

"But,  my  poor  friend,"  interrupted  Dorsenne, 
"whence  such  reasoning?  According  to  that,  we  could 
not  live  any  more.  There  enters  into  our  lives,  by 
indirect  means,  a  collection  of  actions  which  in  no  way 
concerns  us,  and  in  admitting  that  we  have  a  debt  of 
responsibility  to  pay,  that  debt  commences  and  ends  in 
that  which  we  have  wished  directly,  sincerely,  clearly." 

"It  would  be  very  convenient,"  replied  the  Marquis, 
[MO] 


COSMOPOLIS 

with  still  more  vivacity,  '*but  the  proof  that  it  is  not 
true  is  that  you  yourself  are  filled  with  remorse  at  not 
having  saved  the  soul  so  weak  of  that  defenseless  child. 
Ah,  I  do  not  mince  the  truth  to  myself,  and  I  shall  not 
do  so  to  you.  You  remember  the  morning  when  you 
were  so  gay,  and  when  you  gave  me  the  theory  of  your 
cosmopolitanism  ?  It  amused  you,  as  a  perfect  dilet- 
tante, so  you  said,  to  assist  in  one  of  those  dramas  of 
race  which  bring  into  play  the  personages  from  all 
points  of  the  earth  and  of  history,  and  you  then  traced 
to  me  a  programme  very  true,  my  faith,  and  which 
events  have  almost  brought  about.  Madame  Steno 
has  indeed  conducted  herself  toward  her  two  lovers  as 
a  Venetian  of  the  time  of  Aretin;  Chapron,  with  all 
the  blind  devotion  of  a  descendant  of  an  oppressed 
race;  his  sister  with  the  villainous  ferocity  of  a  rebel 
who  at  length  shakes  off  the  yoke,  since  you  think  she 
wrote  those  anonymous  letters.  Hafner  and  Ardea 
have  laid  bare  two  detestable  souls,  the  one  of  an  in- 
famous usurer,  half  German,  half  Dutch ;  the  other  of 
a  degraded  nobleman,  in  whom  is  revived  some  ancient 
condoUiere.  Gorka  has  been  brave  and  mad,  like  entire 
Poland;  his  wife  implacable  and  loyal,  like  all  of  Eng- 
land. Maitland  continues  to  be  positive,  insensible, 
and  wilful  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  as  all  America.  And 
poor  Alba  ended  as  did  her  father.  I  do  not  speak  to 
you  of  Baron  Hafner's  daughter,"  and  he  raised  his 
hat.     Then,  in  an  altered  voice: 

"She  is  a  saint,  in  whom  I  was  deceived.  But  she 
has  Jewish  blood  in  her  veins,  blood  which  was  that  of 
the  people  of  God.     I  should  have  remembered  it  and 

[371] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

the  beautiful  saying  of  the  Middle  Ages :  '  The  Jewish 
women  shall  be  saved  because  they  have  wept  for  our 
Lord  in  secret.'  .  .  .  You  outlined  for  me  in  advance 
the  scene  of  the  drama  in  which  we  have  been  mixed 
up.  .  .  .  And  do  you  remember  what  I  said :  *  Is  there 
not  among  them  a  soul  which  you  might  aid  in  doing 
better?'  You  laughed  in  my  face  at  that  moment. 
You  would  have  treated  me,  had  you  been  less  polite, 
as  a  Philistine  and  a  cahotin.  You  wished  to  be  only 
a  spectator,  the  gentleman  in  the  balcony  who  wipes 
the  glasses  of  his  lorgnette  in  order  to  lose  none  of  the 
comedy.  Well,  you  could  not  do  so.  That  role  is  not 
permitted  a  man.  He  must  act,  and  he  acts  always, 
even  when  he  thinks  he  is  looking  on,  even  when  he 
washes  his  hands  as  Pontius  Pilate,  that  dilettante,  too, 
who  uttered  the  words  of  your  masters  and  of  yourself. 
What  is  truth?  Truth  is  that  there  is  always  and 
ever)^vhere  a  duty  to  fulfil.  Mine  was  to  prevent  that 
criminal  encounter.  Yours  was  not  to  pay  attention 
to  that  young  girl  if  you  did  not  love  her,  and  if  you 
loved  her,  to  marry  her  and  to  take  her  from  her  abom- 
inable surroundings.  We  have  both  failed,  and  at 
what  a  price!" 

"You  are  very  severe,"  said  the  young  man;  "but 
if  you  were  right  would  not  Alba  be  dead?  Of  what 
use  is  it  for  me  to  know  what  I  should  have  done  when 
it  is  too  late?" 

"First,  never  to  do  so  again,"  said  the  Marquis; 
"then  to  judge  yourself  and  your  life." 

"There  is  truth  in  what  you  say,"  replied  Dorsenne, 
"but  you  arc  mistaken  if  you  think  that  the  most  intel- 

[372] 


COSMOPOLIS 

lectual  men  of  our  age  have  not  suffered,  too,  from 
that  abuse  of  thought.  What  is  to  be  done?  Ah,  it 
is  the  disease  of  a  century  too  cultivated,  and  there  is 
no  cure." 

"There  is  one,"  interrupted  Montfanon,  "which 
you  do  not  wish  to  see.  .  ,  .  You  will  not  deny  that 
Balzac  was  the  boldest  of  our  modern  writers.  Is  it 
necessary  for  me,  an  ignorant  man,  to  recite  to  you 
the  phrase  which  governs  his  work:  *  Thought,  princi- 
ple of  evil  and  of  good  can  only  be  prepared,  subdued, 
directed  by  religion.'  See?"  he  continued,  suddenly 
taking  his  companion  by  the  arm  and  forcing  him  to 
look  into  a  transversal  allee  through  the  copse,  "there 
he  is,  the  doctor  who  holds  the  remedy  for  that  malady 
of  the  soul  as  for  all  the  others.  Do  not  show  yourself. 
They  will  have  forgotten  our  presence.  But,  look, 
look!  .  .  .  Ah,  what  a  meeting!" 

The  personage  who  appeared  suddenly  in  that  mel- 
ancholy, deserted  garden,  and  in  a  manner  almost 
supernatural,  so  much  did  his  presence  form  a  living 
commentary  to  the  discourse  of  the  impassioned  noble- 
man, was  no  other  than  the  Holy  Father  himself,  on 
the  point  of  entering  his  carriage  for  his  usual  drive. 
Dorsenne,  who  only  knew  Leon  XIII  from  his  por- 
traits, saw  an  old  man,  bent,  bowed,  whose  white  cas- 
sock gleamed  beneath  the  red  mantle,  and  who  leaned 
on  one  side  upon  a  prelate  of  his  court,  on  the  other 
upon  one  of  his  officers.  In  drawing  back,  as  Mont- 
fanon had  advised,  in  order  not  to  bring  a  reprimand 
upon  the  keepers,  he  could  study  at  his  leisure  the  deli- 
cate face  of  the  Sovereign  Pontiff,  who  paused  at  a 

[373] 


PAUL  BOURGET 

bed  of  roses  to  converse  familiarly  with  a  kneeling 
gardener.  He  saw  the  infinitely  indulgent  smile  of 
that  spiritiielle  mouth.  He  saw  the  light  of  those  eyes 
which  seemed  to  justify  by  their  brightness  the  kwien 
in  ccelo  applied  to  the  successor  of  Pie  IX  by  a  cele- 
brated prophecy.  He  saw  the  venerable  hand,  that 
white,  transparent  hand,  which  was  raised  to  give  the 
solemn  benediction  with  so  much  majesty,  turn  toward 
a  fine  yellow  rose,  and  the  fingers  bend  the  flower  with- 
out plucking  it,  as  if  not  to  harm  the  frail  creation  of 
God.  The  old  Pope  for  a  second  inhaled  its  perfume 
and  then  resumed  his  walk  toward  the  carriage,  vaguely 
to  be  seen  between  the  trunks  of  the  green  oaks.  The 
black  horses  set  off  at  a  trot,  and  Dorsenne,  turning 
again  toward  Montfanon,  perceived  large  tears  upon 
the  lashes  of  the  former  zouave,  who,  forgetting  the 
rest  of  their  conversation,  said,  with  a  sigh:  "And  that 
is  the  only  pleasure  allowed  him,  who  is,  however,  the 
successor  of  the  first  apostle,  to  inhale  his  flowers  and 
drive  in  a  carriage  as  rapidly  as  his  horses  can  go!" 
They  have  procured  four  paltry  kilometers  of  road  at 
the  foot  of  the  terrace  where  we  were  half  an  hour 
since.  And  he  goes  on,  he  goes  on,  thus  deluding  him- 
self with  regard  to  the  vast  space  which  is  forbidden 
him.  I  have  seen  many  tragical  sights  in  my  life.  I 
have  been  to  the  war,  and  I  have  .spent  one  entire  night 
wounded  on  a  battlefield  covered  with  snow,  among 
the  dead,  grazed  by  the  wheels  of  the  artillery  of  the 
conquerors,  who  defiled  singing.  Nothing  has  moved 
me  like  that  drive  of  the  old  man,  who  has  never  ut- 
tered a  complaint  and  who  has  for  himself  only  that 

[MA] 


COSMOPOLIS 

acre  of  land  in  which  to  move  freely.  But  these  arc 
grand  words  which  the  holy  man  wrote  one  day  at  the 
foot  of  his  portrait  for  a  missionary.  The  words  ex- 
plain his  life:  Debiiricem  martyrii  fidem — Faith  is 
bound  to  martyrdom." 

'^Debitricem  martyrii  fidem,^^  repeated  Dorsenne, 
"that  is  beautiful,  indeed.  And,"  he  added,  in  a  low 
voice,  "you  just  now  abused  very  rudely  the  dilettantes 
and  the  sceptic.  But  do  you  think  there  would  be 
one  of  them  who  would  refuse  martyrdom  if  he  could 
have  at  the  same  time  faith?" 

Never  had  Montfanon  heard  the  young  man  utter  a 
similar  phrase  and  in  such  an  accent.  The  image  re- 
turned to  him,  by  way  of  contrast,  of  Dorsenne,  alert 
and  foppish,  the  dandy  of  literature,  so  gayly  a  scoffer 
and  a  sophist,  to  whom  antique  and  venerable  Rome 
was  only  a  city  of  pleasure,  a  cosmopolis  more  para- 
doxical than  Florence,  Nice,  Biarritz,  St.  Moritz,  than 
such  and  such  otiier  cities  of  international  winter  and 
summer.  He  felt  that  for  the  first  time  that  soul  was 
strained  to  its  depths,  the  tragical  death  of  poor  Alba 
had  become  in  the  mind  of  the  writer  the  point  of  re- 
morse around  which  revolved  the  moral  life  of  the 
superior  and  incomplete  being,  exiled  from  simple 
humanity  by  the  most  invincible  pride  of  mind.  Mont- 
fanon comprehended  that  every  additional  word  would 
pain  the  wounded  heart.  He  was  afraid  of  having 
already  lectured  Dorsenne  too  severely.  Hhe  took 
within  his  arm  the  arm  of  the  young  man,  and  he 
pressed  it  silently,  putting  into  that  manly  caress  all  the 
warm  and  discreet  pity  of  an  elder  brother. 

[375] 


/^ 


'c  f 


.^^ 


>  <3 


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